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…

Strength, Loyalty and Compassion

My baby brother & me
You know how they say you can tell what you aspire to most in yourself be determining the qualities that you admire most in others? I've concluded the things I aspire to most are strength, loyalty and compassion. I realize that these three will inevitably overlap in some regards, but I believe them to be sufficiently distinct to list them out as separate ideals. I've learned from my mother and my aunts the importance of being strong for your family, for your men. The men in my family are weak; they fail at laundry, they fail at ambition, they fail at leadership. It is up to the women in my family to lead and to protect. It has always been that way. I have learned from my brother and his friends the importance of loyalty. Betrayal ultimately breeds isolation, and life is joyless when lived alone.

 Finally, there is compassion. I'm not sure from whom I picked up on the importance of compassion. It is not an attribute that is particularly encouraged in my family. Perhaps it is based upon a collection of experiences, wherein I was treated with unexpected kindness or generosity. Perhaps it is merely a projection of my own frailty, a need to feel that the universe will extend forgiveness for my failures, because I will surely fall to be strong and loyal when I am called upon to be both. Regardless, though listed last, I think compassion is the most important of the three qualities to which I aspire, because it is the most difficult. I sit here, claiming my heart aches for this or that, but I refuse to do anything about it. Compassion entails discomfort and pain, and I abhor both to such an embarrassing degree, I fear I will always be deficient in this regard. 

Unspecified


She wake up in a bed. It could be her bed or maybe it belongs to someone else. It doesn't really matter if she opens her eyes alone and shivering, or if she's sweating because of her close proximity to the warm body that still asleep next to her.
She just lay there with her eyes partially open. Her world is just a blur of soft focus and too fucking bright. It doesn't matter how dark the room is, it just always feels a notch too bright. She made it through the night, she's about to face another day.
She sigh, and it's hard to tell if she's relieved or disappointed. It's more like a mixture of both.
So, she coax herself to consciousness, trying to be mindful of all the things that need to get done today. All of those urgent, but not necessarily critical tasks that she has been shuffling from one to do list to the next. She try to bribe herself awake with the intention of breakfast. She try to guilt herself with the notion of responsibility and the undeniable fact that for all of her indulgent bullshit and irrational fears, she's still qualify as a functional human being.
She laugh and it's hard to tell if its amusement or bitterness. It's definitely a mixture of both.
Maybe her physical just lay there for a while longer, or perhaps she's actually shuffle away from the bed. Either way, she is too awake to go back to sleep; she is too asleep to be awake. She pull her laptop over, or sit down in front of her monitor and nudge the machine to bring it to life, because it makes her feels like she has a life, or at least something like it.
This is how mornings come and go. Trying to quite the sulky little voice in the back of her head that keep asking annoying question like: What the fuck am I doing? Don't you know that this is wrong? Why are you doing this? Why bother?
She try to drown that pushy little voice that keeps mumbling in her ear, with the sound of keystrokes and mouse clicks. She try to tell herself that: You are content with your life, even as you're scrolling for something to distract you from considering wether or not that's true. Has that ever been true? Even as she is looking for the next sentence or picture or video or bit of smut; the next thing, a new thrill.
Sure, she has had some laughs, good times, weird experiences. She remembers times when she felt alive, but that feeling always fade ... eventually ... and then she has left trying to suck the marrow out of crack dry bones of the memory.
Truthfully, there's no amount of happiness, sex, intrigue, excitement, money, drugs, love, success or any thing that fills in all the spaces. There's always room for the maddening feeling that she is not really feeling anything. The soul-numbing feeling that she is just going through the motions ...
Sometimes people call this ennui, but maybe she was started to wonder if that's too optimistic of a prognosis
The though that keeps her awake at night, which if part of the reason mornings are so rough for her. Is that maybe this is just what life is: A series of dull moments and tedious tasks broken up by fleeting sensations of something actually worth living for.
For as long as she has been chasing them, she doesn't even know what causes those sensations. But all she can do is keep reaching for them. Sometimes it's impossible for her to name things that are actually worth living for.
All she knows is that she desperately wants to be more than just the measure of an unspecified number of breaths and counting.

Her

She's a prose painter, some of them will like her words, some of them will love her words. Some of them will not stand her words, but then again she's not here to please the faceless maddening crow. To them who truly know her, she's like a European sensibility mixed with the sensual abandon of a woman lost in a world of Pablo Nerudian sensibility. 
She's the one who likes standing on a moving bus or going into a library and using her outdoor voices. When she go over to the dark side she always bring cookies and tea. Sometimes when she's really wild and crazy, she'll even bite into a piece of fruit without giving it a good rinse first.
Does it taste sweeter? You bet your sweet ass it does. She believes one of the most courageous acts you can do it think out loud. She does it often. Sometimes she does it here. With her own words.

 To her, words are sacred as they are profane. Each word is a small story, a thicket of meaning. Words are such sacred objects to her. With words she explore all subject that cross her strange and dark mind from herself to madness, hope, memories, childhood, regret, courage, fear, nature, love, sex, reading, writing, life or what drifts through her cerebral cortex on any random morning or afternoon.
Mostly with cookies and a cup of tea. 

Glass

His  heart is made of glass. Whether it looks half empty or half full. It all takes up the same amount of volume. Sometimes he pours or drink too liberally. He's quickly inebriated, hopelessly intoxicated.
He gets excited, when in his drunken wisdom, thinks he knows what it was. But then, clumsily trips over some careless words that were left on the doorstep. He drops the glass and it shatters, leaving wet stains which could be confused for tears.
It's alright because similar to him, it's part of n interchangeable set. We can always buy more at the shop, if the store runs out, they can always order more from the factory. They build them on site, in their workshop.