ephemeral like snow.
carry my love on the wings of a dove.
would it change a thing? if she loved him less. if he loved her more. maybe if she'd thought less of it. or had innocently dropped the facade that overwhelmed their charade, putting to rest the demons inside his head. perhaps walls built round and round served not as protection but as menacing evil masked by docile, immobile garden gnomes. where did the untrodden, untraversed path begin to fork? where did it begin? how did it end with the one leading to the golden sunrays betraying her while the one laden with the impending doom of fatal heartbreak spelling her fate?
how did she go wrong? did she know she was starting the slow descend into inevitable grief? if she could see the years of her unforeseen future in the mists of a gypsy crystal ball, would she have done it differently?
ah, but love is equal to tragedy. why, in order to be mystical, spellbounding, and endlessly beautiful, loving has to be synonymous with suffering? memories are relived with a sense of nostalgia. wistful, yet acidic nostalgia. we will always long to change what was. we yearn to rewrite "the end" with "happily ever after". we replay memories like rolls of film, skipping the parts we don't want brought into our consciousness. but sometimes the machine fails us... and brings us to unwanted, discarded snapshots of random memories.
that is when we wish. we wish, and we wonder. we conjure fairytales of different plots inside our infinite imaginations. we see a million ways it would have ended differently. perhaps, even with a tinge of sugary syrup. or pink cotton candy. or maybe even aged wine. it is then that we feel it clutching our hearts. that something they call "heart-wrenching". oh yes. it's not all in your head.
what you did not know was, it can be felt literally. "why, why hadn't i done that?" or "why did i do it?". guilt trips. blame games. but then, who are we to predict what could have been if...?
would it have changed a thing? if she cared less. if he cared more. if she tried harder. if he had more faith.
an ounce of our sanity hangs by a thread. dangling at the caresses of little, probing questions. sway too much and fall into the abyss. refuse to budge, and turn stale.
some things are better left unknown. the mysterious are the beautiful. they are the things you put upon your mental pedestals.
every once in a while... we are offered the chance. just one, in a haystack... just one long glimpse into the past and the answers to our unfinished symphonies.
we are given this chance to tread backwards--on the pebbled path till we return once again to that brief point in time where the path had broken in two... only now, it looks like a merge.
once in a lifetime, the powers that be answers the "what ifs"... and the fog clears from our troubled minds. perhaps it would be beautiful... fog that leaves behind an abundance of sunshine, waterfalls, streams and emerald lakes.... perhaps it would be ugly. swamps and spiderwebs among decaying planks of wood.
all the same, truth steals the magic. no longer will we be spellbound by the unknown. our consciousness would grind to a halt; cease to be shrouded by swirling particles of dust.
because in the end, love and mystery walk hand in hand. they feed off one another like the cycles of night and day. love fuels mystery. mystery lets love endure. together, they evoke the magic that oh, so rarely do we encounter.
but after it all, you can, and will ever only love another unrequitedly when your thoughts are still covered by the morning mist. when the aura of the unknown still sprinkles mystical dust upon your endless speculations.
sometimes, it is better to leave mysteries in your mind.
and sometimes, we should let the peter pans in us flourish--if only for this cause... for it is better to be alive, still, in the land of neverending questions.
would it change a thing? if she loved him less. if he loved her more. maybe if she'd thought less of it. or had innocently dropped the facade that overwhelmed their charade, putting to rest the demons inside his head. perhaps walls built round and round served not as protection but as menacing evil masked by docile, immobile garden gnomes. where did the untrodden, untraversed path begin to fork? where did it begin? how did it end with the one leading to the golden sunrays betraying her while the one laden with the impending doom of fatal heartbreak spelling her fate?
how did she go wrong? did she know she was starting the slow descend into inevitable grief? if she could see the years of her unforeseen future in the mists of a gypsy crystal ball, would she have done it differently?
ah, but love is equal to tragedy. why, in order to be mystical, spellbounding, and endlessly beautiful, loving has to be synonymous with suffering? memories are relived with a sense of nostalgia. wistful, yet acidic nostalgia. we will always long to change what was. we yearn to rewrite "the end" with "happily ever after". we replay memories like rolls of film, skipping the parts we don't want brought into our consciousness. but sometimes the machine fails us... and brings us to unwanted, discarded snapshots of random memories.
that is when we wish. we wish, and we wonder. we conjure fairytales of different plots inside our infinite imaginations. we see a million ways it would have ended differently. perhaps, even with a tinge of sugary syrup. or pink cotton candy. or maybe even aged wine. it is then that we feel it clutching our hearts. that something they call "heart-wrenching". oh yes. it's not all in your head.
what you did not know was, it can be felt literally. "why, why hadn't i done that?" or "why did i do it?". guilt trips. blame games. but then, who are we to predict what could have been if...?
would it have changed a thing? if she cared less. if he cared more. if she tried harder. if he had more faith.
an ounce of our sanity hangs by a thread. dangling at the caresses of little, probing questions. sway too much and fall into the abyss. refuse to budge, and turn stale.
some things are better left unknown. the mysterious are the beautiful. they are the things you put upon your mental pedestals.
every once in a while... we are offered the chance. just one, in a haystack... just one long glimpse into the past and the answers to our unfinished symphonies.
we are given this chance to tread backwards--on the pebbled path till we return once again to that brief point in time where the path had broken in two... only now, it looks like a merge.
once in a lifetime, the powers that be answers the "what ifs"... and the fog clears from our troubled minds. perhaps it would be beautiful... fog that leaves behind an abundance of sunshine, waterfalls, streams and emerald lakes.... perhaps it would be ugly. swamps and spiderwebs among decaying planks of wood.
all the same, truth steals the magic. no longer will we be spellbound by the unknown. our consciousness would grind to a halt; cease to be shrouded by swirling particles of dust.
because in the end, love and mystery walk hand in hand. they feed off one another like the cycles of night and day. love fuels mystery. mystery lets love endure. together, they evoke the magic that oh, so rarely do we encounter.
but after it all, you can, and will ever only love another unrequitedly when your thoughts are still covered by the morning mist. when the aura of the unknown still sprinkles mystical dust upon your endless speculations.
sometimes, it is better to leave mysteries in your mind.
and sometimes, we should let the peter pans in us flourish--if only for this cause... for it is better to be alive, still, in the land of neverending questions.