2012


You’ve been awesome, i swear. So full of color, every one, good and bad, each experience I’ve cling to, I’ve learn from. You came and went too fast, I still feel as if it’s merely the first quarter of the year, but it’s not. In a couple of hours our time together will end, but it is what it is. Just tell 2013 how it’s done and maybe, just maybe, if i’m lucky enough, i’ll be as happy and content as I am now.

Have you sung your own music?


Because usually there is quite a distinction. The initial reaction might be the letter, because you should always be yourself, right? But c'mon, let's not stop at should be's and ought to be's. Let's go further than logically's and technically's. We live in society where the face is of utmost importance, and reputations can make or break you. Building bridges is key to achieving success and backing away from the offensive lane will usually do you good. Singing sweet lyrics may be music to one's ears, but where do we cut off the notes? When do we turn off that auto play and compose our own song? The live stream of poetic utterances will make ears bloom upon hearing but when is it that we're allowed to pluck the rusty strings of our vocal pipes to produce our own unique sounds?
Tell me, which times are scheduled so that I can press stop on that box and link my mind to my voice? When can my thoughts flow fluidly from the coils of my brain to the tip of my tongue? I know that it is my choice and that my decisions are under my control, but society puts a hold on me so strong that it makes me inept at deciding when and where. I know I can play any music I want to at any time that I would fancy, but if my sour notes would cause you to clamp your ears or lose your hearing, then maybe it's in my best interest not to.
When is it okay to blast your damn ears and when must I sing to them gently? When must I stroke them with tenderness, and when is it that I can just fuck society and reputations and impressions and let my thoughts leak through my mind, let those music slip through my mouth and spit them respectively into their face?
Oh, don't mind me, I'm just being myself ... isn't that what you asked for?

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This is farewell, not goodbye



I took his hand and put it to my mouth, kissed his finger softly and then placed it upon his lips. "Farewell beautiful." Never once I look away from his gaze. Leaning forward, I lay my forehead on his and whispered, "You have my heart."
"Farewell my love. On this journey you take, I can't follow." His words began to break apart, "I must simply let you go. And though your absence will open my chest, please know I will be missing you always. You are everything I touch. You are all that I see. With you, I am whole. Without, I live a false life."
Slowly I took his face in my hands, brushed his tears and repeated, "You have my heart ... and beautiful," I paused "this is farewell, not goodbye."

Let it

Modern art museum - Munich
Reaching to touch him is like offering my hand to the face of a tiger. His skin, the skin that full of life, trembling and rippling, and I dance my fingers over his ribs, imagining that they are instead stripes.
It is dangerous and exhilarating. The moment of contact is indescribable, like the crack of illumination that breathes over the horizon at the instant dawn rises. 
When he turn his face to me, I feel as if I should hide mine in response, buried in the crook of his elbow, where his cold blood flows so close to the surface. It is too bright a light, too strong a sun. I recoil and retreat ever so slightly into the cave of my feelings that are too dense to decipher. I pick at them and sort then out as a bone collector does. Here is a scapula, my intention to wrap my body around his; here is a calcaneus - my longing to walk beside him; here is a sternum - my desire to give my heart over to him. I sift through my heavy thoughts, feeling the calcium in the ridges of each piece of what draws me to him. But he call me from my sanctuary, and I silently scamper to the doorway, hesitant and hovering. He beckon and I reach out again, hand faintly shaking as it comes close to his smile and the teeth within it.

Crazy

I say I'm crazy but I try so hard to not sound crazy. I think I want to be crazy so I won't feel bad about not being normal. Or what I perceive to be normal. But is crazy person's perception of normal really worth anything? But then again, perhaps the fact that I even compare myself to a norm means I can't be crazy. Maybe I'm riding the margins, skimming the borders between semi-crazy and crazy-crazy...
The only thing holding me back from the land of returns is the compulsion to fit into society. This will facilitates my facade of normality and restrict the expression of insanity. By pretending to be normal, I can almost convince myself I am, and I can certainly convince the rest of them. Ignorance is my defense. Because without suppressing my swollen mind of self-made complications surely only chaos would ensue. 

Let our scars fall in love


“We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”

I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.
Let our scars fall in love.” ― Galway Kinnell

Thought #14

Expectations are a funny thing, you waste so much time guessing what your life could look like. But the thing is you can't really know until the day you open your eyes and see that if you let go and lean into the unexpected it may be something more beautiful that you ever could've imagine. it's not what you've expected, it something even better.
xoxo

Lend a helping hand



I may not have much but I am thankful for what I have, I may can't give much nor don't have much to offer but everything are sincere, I may not a powerful human being but I'm willing to help those who needed the most.


I'm doing charity in my own time, doing activities my own way, 
that would extend what I have to the less fortunate, 
or those who needed my help.
 I find happiness in children that with every giggle, 
laughter, and smile,
 makes my heart melt and want to be with them more.

These children are the reason why I work hard.
 I may not have been solely helping them, 
but they are the reason I am thankful for whatever I have right now. 
They opened my eyes to the fact that not everyone is as lucky as me, 
or as capable as me. 
It has always been a practice of my family to always lend a helping hand. 
Up until now that I’ve grown up, I still carry that value that I am truly proud of. 





















Reasons for loving older men


Wisdom
Skill 
Patience 
Experience 
Expertise
Gallantry 
Gratitude 
Attitude 
Attire
Swagger
Prowess 
Maturity 
Bravery 
Scars
Courage 
Quality 
Ability 
Readiness 
Sophistication
……

All that and more…