Friday, September 19, 2014

Paradoxical Breathing

Dear Lungs,
I don't know how many ribs have become cross with life, how many gasps you've struggled ever since, or how many recruitments have turned out to be corrupted. I hate to be a spectator of my own pain, standing like a street pole rooted in the same ground where things have fallen, where it continues to stand up tall and erect. But it's very important that I find the right numbers so that when you look back someday to find out what had happened, I won't have to give you a file with a vague story and you won't have to entertain a possibility that may be you made it because of me. You'll have made it because of you. It's important that my pieces learn what they're capable of going through, all on their own. That way, every time we're scattered about, which is more often than not, we won't be lost without each other. And we can always compare notes, later.
Out on a mission,
Me.

Acceptable Reduction

I don't believe in reconstruction. I cannot reconstruct you, and you cannot reconstruct my idea of you. You just don't fit into my idea of you and that's that.

The Missing "!"

If there's anything blue about berries on a cake, it's not their wrinkles; it's the way they sit on it and realise how small they are; it's how they give off their color and get just a tag in return.
So forgive me but, I cannot use an exclamation mark just to make it look like a party, especially when I'm letting out a secret, freshly out of a sugar-coated oven, to you.