aletheion

[aletheion]

— Captain Flint (via letsbeloneytogetherr)

[aletheion]

Today, I chose silence.

not out of coldness,

but because I finally saw

how long I’ve stood at a doorway

that was never meant to open for me.

So this time,

I gave up the waiting.

I buried every tender feeling

that once bloomed for you,

and wrapped my arms

around the only soul

who stayed through it all:

my own.

I stopped lighting candles

in places that never held warmth.

I stopped writing names

in hearts that were never mine.

Today,

I write not to be heard,

but to remember that I, too,

deserve to be held,

even if the only arms are mine.

And now it's too late for you and your white horse

to catch me now.

[aletheion]

A single asphodel wilts on the hearth.

No pansy dares to bloom by the window.

The forget-me-not shivers, though spring has long returned.

[aletheion]

I carry you in my rucksack deep,

Beside the first aid, where memories sleep.

In case I hurt you, as I’ve done before,

You’ll find no delay in healing once more.

Your gentle gaze rests in my purse,

Though life brings sweat, the untold stories,

But a glance from you, my heart can’t unbind,

Choked up, breathless, my thoughts intertwined.

This time will pass, when the sky is set to fall,

I know you'll come, calling my name through it all.

I still serve your chilled strawberry drink,

On summer days, when thoughts make me think.

I quench the flames of jealousy’s fire,

With fruit soup sweet no milk, just desire.

[aletheion]

I fight the whispers in my mind,

Leaving all your words behind.

I hide my tears beneath the night,

Far from your ever-judging sight.

You see a woman lost in haze,

Drowning in her idle days.

Yet you don’t know the war I fight,

Or how I shrink to dodge your light.

Regret and hate burn deep in me,

A prisoner who longs to free.

[aletheion]

The Caged Bird’s Song

The bird sings without a pause,

believing its voice holds the truth.

I stay silent, not in agreement,

just too tired to fight the air.

It tilts its head, waiting,

thinking my quiet is praise.

Unaware, I only avoid its wings,

beating storms in a narrow space.

It sings, louder and louder,

not knowing I no longer listen.

Perhaps, it only wants to hear itself.

[aletheion]

Wahai jejak yang tertinggal di pasir.

sebelum kau tersapu ombak,

Ada banyak retorika tentang mu di kepalaku.

Bagaimana kabarnya sekarang?

Masihkah ada aku di sudut matamu,

terselip di antara kenangan yang belum kau hembuskan pergi?

Terlalu lama tanpa kabar, aku hanya berharap:

Semoga kau masih memandang purnama yang sama,

Meski kita tak lagi berbagi langit yang serupa

[aletheion]

I am a seedling, newly broken from its shell. The first crack that marks the beginning of life. I once believed I would grow into a mighty tree, with roots sinking deep into the earth, branches stretching wide to shelter and protect. I wanted to be a place to return to, a home for those I love, and one day, bear fruit that is sweet and abundant.

But on a night filled with fireworks, someone pulled me from the soil I had just begun to call my own. He seized my roots with force, planting me once more in a handful of rocky earth within a vessel they promised was beautiful. I tried to endure, hoping that even within these confines, I could still climb, still live. But I became nothing more than an indoor plant, trapped within walls that stole the light. Without the sun’s warmth to guide me, I no longer knew how to grow.

[aletheion]

Sometimes, we find ourselves in a ballroom of silent anticipation, each of us waiting for the other to make the first move. Yet, neither is willing to give more than what has already been offered. It is a fragile equilibrium, like two hands reaching for one another but never fully meeting, suspended in the quiet tension of unspoken expectations.

I have reached a point where I reflect your actions back to you not out of resentment, but in an attempt to level the path we tread. We navigate this space with the same hesitations, the same walls, and perhaps, the same quiet desolation. This is not a matter of keeping score, but of seeking balance in a place that has long been uneven.

[aletheion]

🪔 She clutched her lamp, fearing its flame would fade, believing it was the only light she had. She measured wealth by its glow, yet she failed to see the warmth of her home. When the lamp shattered, she finally looked up And saw the stars, countless and unshakeable. Only then did she realize, the richest soul is not the one who clings to a flickering flame. But the one who walks beneath a sky that never stops shining. . . . 📌yurate

[aletheion]

In the mailbox, there are many letters that never reach their destination. Some of them may be left behind, still locked, waiting for the right moment to be unlocked. The sender never knows if anyone will read them or if the words will be lost in the uncertain journey. Sometimes, we write without sending, wondering whether our words will be accepted or cause pain. There are things we want to say, but they are blocked by an invisible doubt. “Maybe not every word is worth hearing,” they think, “but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” But they keep writing, silently, hoping someone will read them, even though no words are ever spoken.

[aletheion]

In the mailbox, there are many letters that never reach their destination. Some of them may be left behind, still locked, waiting for the right moment to be unlocked. The sender never knows if anyone will read them or if the words will be lost in the uncertain journey. Sometimes, we write without sending, wondering whether our words will be accepted or cause pain. There are things we want to say, but they are blocked by an invisible doubt. “Maybe not every word is worth hearing,” they think, “but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” But they keep writing, silently, hoping someone will read them, even though no words are ever spoken.

[aletheion]

On a shelf, there was a book with a cracked spine, its pages yellowed, yet it had never been read. The title was erased, leaving only the number 920 marked on its spine. A passing glance would never acknowledge its existence, nor its untold stories.

The number, though meaningless to others, was a constant reminder of the path it couldn’t avoid. Every day, it sat in silence, wishing for the moment when someone would turn its pages, even though it feared what they would find inside.