I Lost Her and I Lost Myself As Well

Moira was always the one who kept me going.
When Liz broke up with me that summer of Fifth grade with a text message saying, “im teribly sorry 4 your lost. I was such a good gurlfriend” , I immediately went over to Moira and cried my heart out.
When I was finally ready to accept that Liz was nothing but a dumb pretty face because apparently it was so obvious to everyone but me, I asked Moira to teach me how to move on and she gave me the largest tub of Ben and Jerry’s she could find.
When I was terribly in need of a guy friend because I felt the urges coming, Moira told me to have a regular stock of baby oil and tissue on my bottom drawer while she listed the sites I apparently needed.
Moira has always been there for me, no matter how far she got away when she went to College. No matter how busy she’s been with her academics, and with her three boyfriends.
So when I tried calling her one night, distraught and full of anxiety for unknown reasons and she never answered, I just knew my sister won’t ever be there for me anymore. And I didn’t know how to keep going.

Her casket was closed when it arrived home.
I wanted to see her; I wanted to see my sister because no matter how much I try to wrap my head around the fact that she’s really gone, I just couldn’t. I think I couldn’t because I wouldn’t.
Mother said it would just haunt me forever, seeing her lifeless instead of the Moira who was always so full of life. I said it wouldn’t, and that I just needed to see her. I need to, I shouted, and my mother broke down in a heap.
My father came over, held my mother while shaking his head at me. I knew my family was hurting, but I loved my sister the most, I needed her the most, and no one would understand it. I felt so alone then. I needed Moira.
When nighttime fell and everyone was asleep, I tiptoed towards her and opened the lid, and screamed at the sight in front of me.
Her face was battered beyond recognition, her limbs detached from her small body, held by black ribbons to hide the evidence of amputation. She was all patches of black and blue, her blue blue eyes clouded with lifelessness. This wasn’t my sister! I need my sister!
I screamed and screamed, even when people surrounded me. Even when my mother hugged me, racked with terrible grief, I still screamed. I screamed at the monster claiming to be my sister. I screamed at the shadow rising from her lifeless body. And I screamed when it smiled at me.

Because She Was Gone

He was walking aimlessly; I walk an empty street, on the boulevard of broken dreams goes his background music inside his head. It was on replay, that particular sentence to be exact, since he found it fitting for his situation. He was traversing the road where it all began and although it wasn’t empty like the song, he sure did feel like one as the memories go by and the dreams slowly shatter to pieces. I was supposed to make it all work out this time, he thought with regretful reminiscence of what passed as the best connection he ever felt with another human. The wind blew, a scent of Jovān White Musk wifting pass his nostrils and he came to a halt. He knew that smell well- the scent he has been waking up to for three years of his life, the one that has always made him smile and reach across the bed towards its owner and yet, he couldn’t quite look up and search for the person wearing that scent now. Someone cleared her throat and his knees trembled; he knew that throat-clearing like his own, catching his attention whenever he drifts off to where his mind automatically shuts down to and dumbly focuses on a certain part of her- her lashes long enough to cause envy to all women, her lips plump and red as cherries, her nose that challenged the right-angled ruler; she was a goddess sent to give him absolution and yet, he lost her. And now here she was, clearing her throat, wanting his attention when he was afraid it was all just a dream.
“How are you?” She asked, and he heard the uncertainty behind her voice, as if she was not quite sure what she was doing. How could she have graced him her presence once more when he doesn’t deserve it?
“Um,” she paused, unsure, waiting. “Er, it’ll be Amma’s birthday on the 20th and you know how much she adores you…” she trailed off, and that action was painful enough, like she was even unsure if her Amma really did adore him, that he raised his head and looked her in the eyes. She was looking at him with uncertainty clear on her eyes, possibly worry, or doubt, or anxiety mixing up the hues of her bright greenish-blue iris. She looked like she wanted to run away from him as fast as she can, but also she looked like she wanted to reach out and ask him what was wrong. And that would be the stupidest question she would’ve asked because right now, everything was wrong.
“Are you-” pause. “Will you come to Amma’s birthday? Please? For Amma?”
And he looked at her with increasing intensity, trying to imprint her face in his mind, as unworthy as he is to be graced her presence. He didn’t answer her question; he couldn’t waste a single nanosecond when he knew this might possibly be the last time he has to look at her. Even when she grew uneasy to his scrutiny, he didn’t waver. He looked at her as she waited for an answer, and looked at her when he fidgeted on her toes, uneasy, and looked at her more when she smiled awkwardly for the last time, and looked at her last when she turned and retreated, her silhouette vanishing, mingling with the bodies busily roaming the streets. That’s when his voice broke through, a whisper-sob that escaped his unworthy lips and he murmured I’m sorry.

Frustrated Writer

There is a great contest inside my head; of wanting to shut up and never write a single thing because I feel like everything I do is superficial and not worth reading, and of wanting to spill out even the most hogwash things I could come up with just to be able to achieve that dream of wanting to be remembered. It’s shallow, I know, that I only write because I desperately want to be remembered, but there is something quite intoxicating about the thought that even if I cease to exist, my words would remain in this world, waiting to be discovered by the next kindred soul. One day, someone else would feel the things I felt, would think about the thoughts that plagued me, and someday, that someone would find my words written somewhere else. Like destiny bringing together two souls that were generations apart. Someday, my words would touch someone else and that someone wouldn’t feel as alone and misunderstood as I do now. Someday, my words would serve its purpose and even if my reasons might sound purely superficial and selfish, I know that my words would traverse time to shed off the shallowness of it and become worthwhile.

The Love of Writing

There is something greatly intoxicating about writing; of putting thoughts into words, of writing words into paper, of seeing the visual representation of the thought that has existed inside your mind only minutes ago.
There is something highly satisfying about reading your words and finding out that you make sense after all, and of listening to your readers compliment you, or of seeing that realization dawn on their eyes as your words become their thoughts; of relating, and communicating, and just basically connecting to one another.
The beauty of writing lies on being able to connect, of being able to be one with someone else even just for an instant.
The beauty of writing is that it frees the turmoil inside of you, the letters coming up together to form words, the words mixing together to make perfect sense.
For an instant, as you write, you know that your life makes sense.
For an instant, you believe that everything else makes sense.