ellemusing-it

[ellemusing-it]

slumber or sobriety ?

it’s been so long since i last wrote. words, once flowing from my mind with ease, now feel like a slumbering memory; they lie dormant, as if in hibernation. yet here i am, on the verge of documenting something intimate—something small yet monumental in its tenderness: the sleepy, subdued contentment i feel in his presence. this feeling seems to exist in its own rhythm, pulling me toward a calm that’s hard to articulate. it's a subtle contradiction: a yearning to stay alert and engaged, yet a complete surrender to tranquility whenever he is nearby.

lately, i find myself feeling sleepy all the time, caught between alertness and drowsiness. there’s a kind of paradox to it—this desire to be close, yet feeling a pull into deep slumber, as if his presence brings out my most relaxed, vulnerable self. we don’t even need to talk. we don’t need to exchange words or even touch skin to skin, although i won’t deny the warmth and comfort that would bring. instead, i’m content simply to lean my head on his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent that seems woven into his very essence. it’s as though his presence is a lullaby that slowly lowers my defenses, easing me into an unguarded space where the worries and thoughts crowding my mind simply drift away.

at times, i wonder what this chronic drowsiness means. there’s something to it, a crest and trough that feels almost spiritual, like my mind and body are in quiet accord around him. it’s a strange kind of certainty, this feeling that everything around me can fade to gray, leaving just the two of us in some soft, hazy focus. in the quiet of these moments, i feel as though i could drift into sleep, yet i resist just enough to keep hold of the awareness that he’s here, close, solid.

even now, as i type this, i feel the gentle pull of sleep creeping in. it’s a powerful thing, this drowsiness, so constant that it’s almost become a defining part of my experience with him. i wonder if it’s my body’s way of communicating, as if this craving for rest reflects a kind of comfort and vulnerability i haven’t felt elsewhere. with him, the need to keep my guard up fades; every instinct urges me to relax, as though every fiber of my being senses that i’m safe. it’s more than mere sleepiness—it’s the feeling of total surrender, of letting my mind and body sink into a space where i am truly at ease.

lately, these moments with him have taken on a kind of ritualistic quality. when we’re together, i find myself lulled by the familiar sights and sounds around us. in his presence, time slows down, and the world outside seems to fade. it’s as if my sense of self becomes more defined and yet, paradoxically, more transparent. i can let go of the internal chatter, the never-ending scroll of thoughts and questions. i don’t have to analyze or search for meaning. the simplicity of it is almost sacred—just the two of us, sharing a space and breathing in tandem.

perhaps i’m trying to give meaning to an experience that defies words, but i feel compelled to document it nonetheless. there’s a deep familiarity in his presence, like a melody that’s been playing softly in the background of my life, waiting for me to notice it. and now, it’s becoming chronic, this feeling of wanting to be near him. it’s not just emotional; it feels physical, too. my body seems to remember him, to respond in its own language of slowed heartbeats and heavy eyelids. i want to know what it means, this drowsiness that overtakes me when i’m near him, this urge to surrender to a calm that’s as restful as sleep but deeper.

but there’s a part of me that’s cautious, a part that wonders if this chronic yearning is simply a natural response to feeling safe or something more. what does it mean to feel so deeply at peace with someone? does it reflect my own state, or is it an indication of something bigger, a connection that speaks to a need i can’t quite define?

these quiet moments are like fragments of a dream where reality is softened, as if the edges are blurred by the gentle comfort of being with him. even when we’re just sitting together in silence, i feel an overwhelming sense of warmth. there’s no need for grand gestures or sweeping statements. all i need is the rhythm of his breathing beside me, a reminder that i’m not alone. it feels strange to be so affected by something as simple as his presence, to be so at ease that my very consciousness seems to unwind.

in some ways, he feels like a bridge to a place within myself that i hadn’t known existed. with this version of him, there’s no need to present, to perform. i can be fully myself, stripped of pretense and armor, raw and vulnerable in a way that feels almost meditative. it’s as if he sees beyond my usual defenses, reaching a part of me that i’m often too busy to notice. this feeling of “home” i get with him, this sleepy comfort—it’s the closest thing to peace that i know.

there’s a part of me that wants to hold onto this experience, to keep it safe and untouched, like a treasured keepsake that reminds me of a time and place where i felt completely and profoundly content. but the question lies how? no camera flash, clicks, could ever carry that memento.

the drowsiness, the comfort—it all feels sacred, like something to be protected. yet i can’t help but wonder: does this experience mean something, or is it simply a manifestation of my own inner longing? perhaps it’s a sign that i’ve found this someone who brings out a deeper part of me, a part that yearns for rest and comfort and simplicity.

these thoughts swirl around my mind, making me feel both present and absent, like i’m in a waking dream. there’s something to be said about finding someone who feels like a quiet retreat, a place where i can leave behind the weight of the world and simply exist. it’s a comfort i never thought i’d find, a feeling that transcends mere attraction or affection. it’s a sense of belonging, of having found a kindred spirit who offers me a glimpse of peace in a world that so often feels chaotic.

as this feeling becomes chronic, a constant hum in the background of my life, i find myself surrendering to it more easily. i no longer resist the drowsiness, the urge to close my eyes and let go. it’s as though my body knows that with viktor, i am safe to release the burdens i carry, to give in to the softness that surrounds us. i don’t know if this feeling will last forever, but i cherish it now, grateful for the calm he worked hard to bring into my life.

in a way, this chronic comfort has taught me something profound about myself. it has shown me that i am capable of finding peace, even in the midst of life’s rollercoasters. it has reminded me that sometimes, the most meaningful connections are the quiet ones, the ones that require no words, no grand gestures, just a gentle presence that says, “i am here.” and in that presence, i find a quiet kind of contentment that feels like home.

[ellemusing-it]

soul kitchen

devouring her is easy, so he says, spreading her mind, stretching her perspective, so that it might align. the meal tonight is conversation, consuming the worries of the day, the thoughts pooling between the two of them, like wine.

“𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦,” she says. “𝘪’𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥,” is his reply. he hesitates for a moment, just a moment— he’s not used to having access, to where he’s previously been denied, until she pulls those defenses down, and drops them around her ankles.

he’s focused, honed in, got her curvature in his scope. everything’s laid out: past childhood, his player days and player ways, before he was taken out the game. he says they used to call him the sniper, because he doesn’t miss— except for when he mistakes a bad thing to be great, and 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 with the broad shoulders, confidence oozing off her lips, like her usual gloss.

they’re going back and forth, it’s even-steven and a coin toss, no one’s worried about winning, there is no prize— nothing besides learning one another deeply. bingsu is on the menu, but they decline— it’s time for the real love, leaving the sweet nothings behind.

[ellemusing-it]

ORange You Glad I Didn't Say RAGE? Peeling Back the Citric Layers of Female Fury

𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯

𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘵

as i’ve grown both increasingly ill and increasingly visible, i’ve had to face my relationship with my own sickness. for women, it’s often tempting to simplify illness into a consumable narrative—turning deep-seated issues into just smudged eyeliner and wild escapades, or transforming childhood trauma into mere “daddy issues” and suicidal depression into a mysterious allure. it’s easier to market your pain than to truly confront it.

this month, i’ve been overwhelmed by a profound depressive episode—one that feels like wearing ankle weights and having time swirl around you like soup. i’ve spent most days lying on the mattress in my small, rented apartment, staring at the ceiling and straining to hear the whispers of my bunking neighbors through the walls. often, i’ve struggled to tell whether i’m dreaming or awake.

you could blame it on your hormones, the unpredictable tides of your period, or the dull ache of seasonal depression that seeps into your bones as the days grow shorter. you could trace it back to the shadows of your childhood, the echoes of your parents’ arguments that linger in your mind, or the wounds left by your exes that never seem to heal. but deep down, you know that placing blame wouldn’t change a thing. it’s just a fleeting relief, a temporary balm that does little to ease the gnawing pain.

i find myself in a melodramatic, 20th-century woman phase—sleeping erratically, sobbing, writing without publishing, and seeing shapes in my wallpaper. i neglect personal care, indulge in lavish fasting, and tarnish my reputation for battling dehydration. i make sure to nibble the tip of my fingernails during these depressive episodes, hoping they’ll stop writhing as an urge to run down my wrists. even at my lowest, i still view my experiences through a consumer lens; the urge to romanticize our own struggles and shape them into a compelling story has become as natural as breathing for women.

gaslight yourself if it helps you sleep at night—convince yourself that it’s all in your head, that you’re imagining things. it’s all the same, a cycle that repeats itself endlessly. deep inside, you know there’s nothing that can truly take it away. you carry it with you, a constant companion that lurks in the corners of your mind, whispering doubts and insecurities.

𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘵,

there’s a strange comfort in being understood, even if it’s only as a caricature. this feeling is genuine because i can contrast it with other experiences. i’m living through my own diane nguyen phase, my own the bell jar moment, my phoebe bridgers - chapell roan spectrum; i am a complementary mix of the 'buzz' & 'this is how tomorrow move' albums; i am eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. do you see it now? do you understand? despite my efforts, i find myself only able to grasp my identity through the stories of those who seem more complete. and while i tell myself i’m drawn to this media because it resonates with some intrinsic part of me, i wonder if it’s shaping me, too. who would i be without the things i consume? what feelings would remain?

you’ll tell yourself that you’re okay, that you’re resilient, stronger than before. you don’t cut, nor do you burn. you don’t smoke, nor do you get high. but you know another form of harm, one that consumes your mind, a silent battle that rages within. you understand why they did it, why you are the way you are, and you possess a clarity about what’s wrong. your insight, your maturity—a double-edged sword, a parasite that eats at you from the inside. the very thing that people praise you for becomes a burden too heavy to bear.

in a world where mass consumerism reigns, perhaps we’ve lost touch with what it means to exist beyond something marketable. this struggle echoes themes from juliet ivy's "we're all eating each other," where the lyrics explore how we consume not only products but also each other's identities and emotions. the song reflects on how we lose ourselves in this cycle, becoming products of our own creation, shaped by the endless need for validation and recognition. it’s a poignant reminder of the struggle to maintain a sense of self amid the chaos of external expectations and the relentless pace of modern life.

it follows you like a curse, an invisible chain that binds you, making you wonder what sins you’re paying for. there is something sick and twisted inside you, a darkness that refuses to let go. you will never be rid of it because it’s woven into the fabric of who you are. it is what you make of it that determines your life, the choices you make in spite of it, or perhaps because of it.

you'll try to find meaning in your trauma, searching for a purpose in the pain because this damage can't have been for nothing. 𝘴𝘰, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳?

this is female rage at its deepest, saddest, most self-annihilating. it’s the quiet despair that whispers, "i want to burn my clothes," which translates to "i want to crawl out of my fucking skin because you've touched it," and "i want to change my name because i can still hear it in your voice and it sounds like a slur." it’s the desperate longing to fake your own death and start a new life somewhere else because you've ruined mine, and the wish to erase every memory of you from my brain.

female rage doesn’t take a golf club to your car or throw your flaming clothes on the lawn. it’s an inward implosion, a fire that eats itself alive, sets itself ablaze, screams itself sick. the only vengeance it seeks is in hoping you witness our self-destruction, that you see the wreckage you’ve left behind. female rage wants to grasp the knife you dangled over our heads for weeks, to take control of the threat that loomed over us as you slithered away, hoping we wouldn’t notice. hoping we wouldn’t text you after 19 days of silence and ask, “can we talk?” but it doesn’t want to turn the knife on you. it just wants to finish the job itself. it doesn’t want blood; it wants to bleed out, to let go of the anguish once and for all. and it wants you to fucking watch.

this is the paradox of female rage—a desire to implode rather than explode, to internalize rather than burst out. it’s the silent scream that echoes within, a testament to the strength it takes to endure. it’s the quiet rebellion against the constraints imposed upon us, the fierce determination to reclaim our narrative, even if it means burning it all down to start anew.

just as an orange is divided into twelve segments, each layer of rage and pain reveals a new facet of the struggle. each segment is a fragment of a tumultuous year, each peel an attempt to grasp the essence of our suffering. and while peeling back each layer might feel like removing pieces of ourselves, it’s also a testament to the complexity and depth of what we endure. in this process, we come to understand that while our pain may be segmented, it is no less significant.

now .. would you still 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘭 that for me?

[ellemusing-it]

Languid Steps of an Undead Soul

it feels as though i am already dead. dead inside, like i am digging my own grave. whatever once drove me to be a person now seems like a retired scheme. my eyes feel heavy, sunken with a desperate call for sleep and rest. how long have i been awake, really? how long have i been frying the last of my brain cells, trying to keep pace with the ever-growing world and my own development? it sounds promising, but it isn't. i am already dead, albeit feeding on allegorical drugs, addiction, and all those distractions that keep me from truly living.

what is it like to run with a purpose, a sense of direction? am i always full of words but never actions, consumed with thoughts but forever immobilized? how do people who are so burdened with everything in their lives seem to walk fast? why does it feel like an arrow of slow rigidity has struck me in the back, making me so slow to walk, slow to move, slow to live? as fast as my thoughts race, kilometers or miles per nanosecond, i tread through life slowly, half-willingly, half-unwantedly. it seems like i have run out of hats to wear.

i wish i still had that personality where i was wide-eyed, ready to pounce on whatever life handed me. i wish i had the sage-like mind where i still dreamed and danced with the world at my feet. i wish i still had a connection with the author who writes my story, who guides my fate, and to whom i call out. desperate times call for desperate measures. i know everything happening in my life, be it a test or unrest, has a reason. maybe i need to be here again, in this 'hello darkness, my old friend' situation, to seek out spirituality.

but i don't know, i really don't. maybe i am now reaping the consequences of my 'gaining-esoteric-wisdom-from-fucking-around-and-finding-out.' i wish i had my spark back. you know that internal feeling when you're in a low vibrational mode, the one that you know might spill onto others? i am supposed to influence, not spread an infection or something.

cruel summer, indeed. a lot of heartbreaks, lessons, trust issues, lies, sin, guilty pleasures—it feels like you're already dead in a game that replays over and over to make you feel included, but there's nothing you can do. i'm so tired of being tired, of being sad, of feeling nothing, of feeling blue. i'm so tired of regulating, encompassing, sharing, ranting, or trying to reel it off me, because i really don't know what to do. i'm so tired of reliving visions or fever dreams, of being so caught up in my problems that i can't seem to be functional or productive in the real world.

how does one begin to make up for lost time? being in your 20s is the most drugged-down feeling of all time—finding yourself, distinguishing reality from dreams, and learning to make your dreams a reality. no regrets is what i miss most, but all i have right now are loads and loads of them. at this moment, i am just a slave to my own vision, going kahoots on a bewitching feeling of confusion.

[ellemusing-it]

Into Me, I See: Unveiling the Depths of Intimacy

in the quiet moments of my day, when the clamor of the world fades into a distant hum, i find myself grappling with a longing so substantial that it often feels almost shameful to admit. it's a craving for something simple yet profound—a man's touch, a man's kiss, a man's hug. i can almost hear the echoes of my own self-criticism, the voice whispering that to desire these things is somehow indifferent. it's as though the very act of wanting makes me less, rather than more, of a person.

the complexity of my feelings extends beyond just the physical aspect; it's deeply influenced by the dissonance between words and actions. men’s promises and declarations often seem like mere reflections of what i want to hear rather than genuine expressions of their intentions. this mismatch creates a chasm of trust, making me wary of believing that their words are sincere. the stereotype that men are just liars only exacerbates this distrust, as it reinforces the belief that their spoken assurances are unreliable. in this outlook of deception, the touch becomes a tangible reassurance, albeit fraught with its own set of contradictions. it’s a stark reminder that while actions may speak louder than words, even they can be fraught with uncertainty and mixed signals.

i grew up in the shadow of an absent father. he was a ghost in our house, a phantom that never materialized. his absence left a void, a gaping chasm that i’ve tried to fill in countless ways. but no matter what i did, that emptiness remained, gnawing at my insides. i swore, with the fervor of a desperate child, that i would never allow myself to depend on a man, never succumb to the need for male affection. as a bisexual woman, i promised myself that women would be enough, that i would find solace in their arms, in their kisses, in their touch.

a man’s touch—whether it’s a gentle hand on my shoulder or a reassuring pat—holds a kind of comfort that is both foreign and familiar. it’s not just about the physical sensation, but the emotional assurance that comes with it. a man’s kiss, on the other hand, feels like a promise of intimacy, a sharing of space and warmth that i find myself yearning for. and a man’s hug—well, it seems to be the embodiment of safety and closeness, a haven from the chaos of the world.

yet, the desire for a man’s touch persists, like an itch i can’t scratch. it makes me feel weak, inferior, pathetic. why should i need a man to complete me? why should i crave something that feels like a betrayal of my own identity? it's as though society has conditioned me to believe that my worth is somehow tied to a man’s validation, that i am incomplete without it. and that notion disgusts me.

maybe this is why i've always romanticized the idea of the first man i'll ever fall head over heels in love with. what is it in him that i’ve fallen in love for? i don’t know if this is vanity, but for that time, i swore that i would never love another. not until i fell in love for the second time. this time, it humbled me. there was something in him i couldn't explain that subdued me. i surrendered everything to him like a war i was sure of not winning. what will i do now that there are parts of me in him and him in me? how will i ever forget that?

there’s a romanticism to the idea of the "first." the first man to touch me, to see me bare, to hold me in his arms. he would be lucky, i tell myself, because he would be the first to penetrate the fortress i’ve built around my heart. but even as i entertain this fantasy, i feel a pang of guilt. am i betraying my principles? am i conceding to the very thing i’ve sworn to reject?

is this why physical touch is my least preferred love language? it’s something that seems alienating to me, something i’ve never sought out or yearned for. in my childhood, it resonated through my subconscious, leading me to avoid it. this aversion may explain why, when someone does touch me, my brain interprets it as inherently sexual. i can’t help but assume that any touch is driven by physical attraction or lustful intent. this belief has perhaps prevented me from experiencing the pure, affectionate power of touch.

to be a woman seeking a better half in a man feels like a cliché, a narrative spun by centuries of patriarchal storytelling. why does it have to be a man? why must we perpetuate this tired trope of heteronormative completion? i look at the women around me, strong, independent, and capable, and i wonder why we still buy into the notion that we need men to complete us.

but perhaps it’s not about completion at all. perhaps it’s about connection. the human need for intimacy, for closeness, for touch, transcends gender. it's a fundamental part of our humanity. and while i may struggle with my own desires, grappling with the tension between my principles and my longings, i’m beginning to understand that wanting a man’s touch doesn’t make me weak. it makes me human.

i suppose i’ll forever be shadowed by the echoes of moments when i failed to safeguard my own sense of self, whether those failures were deliberate or accidental. each experience, whether marked by sincerity or insincerity, has sculpted the person i am today, leading me to an awakening of sorts—the delicate art of discernment through the healing power of touch. it’s a paradoxical liberation that only came about through the encounters with men who, for better or worse, ignited the sparks of this realization. their ‘touch’—both literal and metaphorical—became the catalyst for a profound sensory awareness, a deepened capacity to ‘feel’ in ways i never had before.

it’s an odd gratitude i hold, that these interactions, though fraught with complexity, have ultimately paved the way for a richer, more nuanced understanding of my own emotional landscape. their affection, their tenderness, and even their absence have guided me towards an awakening, revealing the subtleties of feeling that i might have otherwise missed. it is through their 'hands' that i learned to truly feel, and for this unexpected gift of enlightenment, i offer my heartfelt thanks.

so, to the man who might one day be my husband, my endgame, know this: you will be blessed, not because you have conquered me, but because you have earned a place in my heart that i’ve guarded so fiercely. and to myself, i say this: it’s okay to want. it's okay to crave. it's okay to need. because in the end, we are all just searching for connection in a world that often feels so disconnected. as i await the day we will be united, i want to share with you a promise that comes from the deepest part of my heart. in this season of singleness, i commit to tending the garden of my soul with purity and devotion, nurturing it with love and faithfulness. i promise to live a life that is pleasing to Him, honoring Him in all that i do, and preparing myself to be the partner you deserve.

until then, come find me ... 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘣.

[ellemusing-it]

On Welling Dreams for Romance's Reverie & Realism's Resolve

: 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 '𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺'?

: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?

: 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩.. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 ..𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯

: 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘺 ��𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘵?

: 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘯.. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴

: 𝘰𝘩. 𝘯𝘢𝘩𝘩, 𝘪'𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘹𝘪𝘤

*cigarette smoke billows onto the air*

~𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺..

: 𝘪'𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘨𝘰-

: 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘰𝘧 '𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺' 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘕𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘨𝘰..

: 𝘞𝘌𝘓𝘓, 𝘪 𝘥𝘪𝘥

: 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯?

: 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺

: 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘢𝘴..

: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵?

: 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴.

: 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴

: 𝘪'𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘪 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵

*smiles wrinkly whilst biting the lip*

: 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘨𝘪𝘢..

: 𝘎𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨

: 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘴..

: 𝘸𝘩𝘺?

*tugs the negroni sbagliato glass firmly*

: 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯..

: 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴

: 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥.

: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?

: 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 ..𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢 '𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯' 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘹𝘢-

: 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯, 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 ..𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺.. 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 !!

: 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 '𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯' 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵

~ 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰

: 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘐𝘍 𝘐 𝘋𝘖𝘕'𝘛 𝘞𝘈𝘕𝘛 𝘛𝘖 𝘓𝘌𝘛 𝘐𝘛 𝘎𝘖?

: 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦.

*drinks the bottom lid up half-full*

: 𝘴𝘰, 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦.

: 𝘴𝘪𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬.. 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦.

[ellemusing-it]

I 4 < 3

What are cracks and creases from yonder window? I must’ve sullied myself to be unbecoming of my own state.

: Was he kind? 𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭.

: Angge, ay ano’t di mo kasama syota mo? 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘢 𝘯𝘢, 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘢𝘯

: Proud ako sayo mirangi, apir nga ..mahirap yan ako’y di ko magagawa ‘yan 8 yrs kami ni kuya dondon mo mandin ay abaw kung kayo ay kayo talaga

-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘰 𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘢𝘯 𝘬𝘰 𝘯𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢 𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘪-

Pinagsisikpan ang dibdib ko sa tuwing gigising ng tanaw ang katotohanang isa nanaman itong panibagong umaga. Parang may kulang. Hindi parang, ngunit mayroon nga. Pero ‘wag ka. ngingiti ako at iisiping dapat ko ito gawing makabuluhan. Dadaan ang maghapon, nagpakalunod sa mga gawain o ‘di kaya’y mga bagay na kasiya-siya, pero mananatali pa rin na pinakaayaw ko ang pagdilim. Paglubog ng araw na siyang hudyat ng tahimik at ng gabing malamig. Ayaw ko na mapag-isa. Sobrang lumalakas ang mga boses, minsan iniisip ko ang mga paraan kung paano sila patatahimikin. Hindi ko kaya. Parang wala akong pribilehiyo.

Ganito pala ‘pag siyang nang-iwan. Teka burahin ko. Hindi, wala na iba pang salita rito. Ang 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 ng atake ‘di ba. Noon, hindi ko lubusang maintindihan bakit may aalis at may maiiwan. Huwag mo na ako tanungin, naranasan ko na yung isa. Isang libong mga tanong, galit, pighati, at mga pagtangis sa gabi—alam ko ang bawat sulok ng mga ‘yan. Iba pala. Iba pala pag ikaw yung lumisan. Umiiyak pa rin ako, ngunit parang gising rin ang aking diwa. Hindi ko mailabas ng tuluyan, parang may kamalian sa aking mga hikbi. Parang wala akong karapatan. Hindi ko alam kung gaano mo ako siguro sinusumpa sa lahat-lahat ng ating kinahantungan.

“ 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘰. “

Sauladong-saulado mo na yata. Na pati ba naman sa anggulong ito, papantayan kita. Pipilitin ko magpakatatag, titiisin ang pagdarahop sa aking mga pagdedesisyon. Kailangan kong lunukin ang mga karatig ng aking sinumpaang pangako, na hindi ko ito magagawa. Papahirapan ko rin ang sarili ko, kung ibigsabihin nito ay magka-lebel na tayo ng sakit. Dadamayan kita, kung ibigsabihin nito ay parehas nating lalakarin ang pasilyo sa lamay ng namatay nating relasyon.

Pero, 𝘑𝘜𝘚𝘒𝘖 𝘗𝘖 … I miss you like breathing.

Hindi na kailangang ipaalala ng aking isipan na ikaw ang siyang kulang. Hindi nito kailangang ipahiwatig sa akin ang iyong kabuuan, o ang mga pagsasama nating ipininta bilang larawan. Sapat na para pasikipin ng aking puso ang kanyang sariling pagdadalamhati. Na maging maliwanag sa akin na ikaw at ikaw pa rin ang tinatangi.

Pakiramdam ko, hindi ko na kayang mabuhay. Taliwas sa lahat ng inakala ko nung naging mapusok ako sa aking mga panukala. Nananatiling wala akong pagsisisi sa ating kinahinatnan. Alam ko na mahirap ang proseso, ngunit hindi ko inaasahan na ako’y mabibigatan ng ganito.

𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨.

I find myself grazing every inch of a titillating chase to catch an escaping air. Just by the thought of you. I cannot seem to breathe, without you. My personal brand of oxygen.

𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?

If you are, then it’s okay. I’ll endure it for you. Take my somber whimpers upon a choking farce as my apologies. My apologies for not letting you know properly—try as I might, that I yearn for you still. That whenever you may ring a bell, I can still hear it. Miles of the distance, but it is that your call is too loud for me to keep it silent.

I guess this is the pain that will never go away. This act of missing you. Even when the story of us is ablaze, I already have this. My heart calls your name! On a lot of days but one:

I miss you, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬

I miss you, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥

I miss you, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘦

I miss you, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

but maybe, maybe

I miss you, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥

Perhaps you were right all along. You were the closest to have seen my soul. You know me. You unlearnt me. You remember me. I have been dealt with tremendous care. You dealt with me. Bled with me. I have been on a one-to-one companionship that I never thought would be possible. Calling it friendship would be pensive. Calling it love would be passionate. Call it what you want, but I simply found it comforting that you’re breathing the same air as I am. That I found a living, breathing person, exalting radiance as it is with them existing.

I miss you, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥

We’re already married. It may not be a factual and a widely accepted belief, but I do. It’s obvious as it sounds, I’m not heading for a spin. I have rummaged my mind how every brushstroke leads to, how every thistle of touch etches my skin with permanence as a tattoo. One of which we’ll be reminded: ‘𝘵𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴. What am I supposed to do ..knowing that I have been marked? What am I supposed to do, when you painted me with colors, on palettes where your fingers have dipped. You painted me red, then you painted me golden. Then you encased me with a cloudy-turned-translucent varnish—a non-tarnishing seal. I am yours, body & soul.

I miss you, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦

They say it’s proof that I have loved well. It is the receipt that I find stinging to hold and to fold; whether to throw or to keep. It is the grief that I wave as a souvenir, or just a roll of paper to tear. Whether it is this, or that, it is an unspeakable fact that love was once mine, it was once I wanted, and I bought in a transactional pyre. Here is the proof that I paid the price.

[ellemusing-it]

the butterfly effect

i lay here, burdened with a torrent of thoughts that refuse to grant me respite. the afternoon haze seems to conspire with my racing mind, denying me the solace of sleep. in my quest for tranquility, i confront a silence so deafening, it overwhelms me. is it the lingering effects of last night's indulgence in spirits, or is it the profound dissonance between reality, the relentless march of time, and the ebb and flow of my consciousness amidst the tumult of adulthood?

naked, reclining meticulously on the crimson, ebony, and ivory-striped bedding, i find myself engulfed, submerged in a sea of contemplation. is it the impending end of the semester that weighs upon me, or is it because they remind me of you, only us two, at the glimpse of our trysts? i feel like an illicit lover in my own narrative, where passion intertwines with taboo, a seductive dance with destiny. but as the universe demands its due, sacrifices must be made, and destinies must diverge.

i'm not so sure about the missing. i have said it multiple times in my existence, all in the course of friendship, love, and familial bonds. never have i thought i would linger on it more. let's say i do miss you, but it isn't because i solely want to revisit every memory we could make and do it again. it is fun, i must admit. everything we do, as much as i am with you, warms my heart because your presence brings the calmest of moods. you are living proof that i can love and that simply you are that person, my person, with whom i am sharing a partnership.

maybe jeepney phaseouts are horrific. boo. little did the universe know, as much as the noisy streets and the cacophony of honking automobiles go on, there are two souls having a discourse about love. it ranges from their common comrade's tale to even scooping the very bouts of their 'relationship' timeline, the prognosis, and the related studies that govern their romantic dynamic. not gonna lie, this is where the three-body problem kicks in.

i have never been so confounded about the reality of things that sometimes, there are really pieces of things we pick up from others. i still carry so many people with me in my wardrobe, music choices, slang usage, and ideals that i strive to uphold—people i no longer speak to or see for whatever reason. how permeable and all-powerful we are! but what if it's from a doomed connection or a person from whom traumatic events arise here and there? i find myself learning that we are simply, utter fools.

i have read a lot of poetry and novels that grapple with the idea that you cannot simply choose between being in love and being wise. it permeates and clouds us with confusion, makes us act invariably, and devote ourselves to the people we're in love with, helplessly. now, this is where the part about the passage of time comes in. am i in a state of grief? i think i could say, in the basic sense of the word, that we're okay. yet, i feel a different tug on my heart and chest whenever i take a glimpse of our pictures, the proof of our magic, and our most-curated universe.

i can't help but dwell on those picturesque little worlds and wonder how on earth we made that. and do these kinds of things coexist with time? we created this? this happened? my hair stands on end whenever i think of how far we've come. there can be recognized as small progress, yet literally, for better or for worse, in whatever 'reality' we're in, it is most definite—that you are to be with me. of course, there is still a margin of doubt, but why do i feel like in shakespeare's words, "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." we certainly affirmed our theatrical prowess in our high school days. we might be actors and wear different hats and masks and follow scripts. we might be mere puppets, tied to invisible strings that connect me to you. but one thing i'm sure of is that, when the red curtain falls, i am conscious enough that with you, and every "you" out there, there is certainty.