A writer

“I find I think of myself not as a writer so much as someone who provides a gateway, a tangential route for readers to reach the circus. To visit the circus again, if only in their minds, when they are unable to attend it physically. I relay it through printed words on crumpled newsprint, words that they can read again and again, returning to the circus whenever they wish, regardless of time of day or physical location. Transporting them at will. When put that way, it sounds rather like magic, doesn’t it?”

—	Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

He is like..

Trees don't sing anymore I can only hear secret whispering and mocking sighs, cold wind ruining my pretty braids. And the only wish I beg for is that to know what you really feel? Do I ever cross your mind? Have you seen a sigh of my smile randomly in your eyes? But something keeps trying to convince me that apart of you wished for me and for this part I linger myself on you. But yesterday not yesterday literally we can say lately I turned into heavy teardrops watering the flowers of my pillow. I stuff my heart's pocket with unwanted emotions and mostly at the night, air smelled of dried rose petals and he, he is like starlight that floats on the lake at night. Like sleeping lily pads. Sometimes he is like the moonlight drowned by the waves of the sea. Loud, but you can't hear him and I wake up every morning staring out the balcony window at the clouds with my hair tied up in a soft ribbon thinking of you forever again.

The woman.

Drowning in my own thoughts, continuously day and night, going back, down, up and everywhere. Too immense, they blocking on my ears too much to handle, they are eating me alive clueless-ly in good or a bad way as if there is nothing else in the world, deep deep thoughts they lead me to one scene always a woman a blonde one, sitting on a desk beside a window an open window with white curtains moving smoothly with the fresh air letting the sunbeams in, actually everything is white. The woman is wearing thin glasses writing this. Maybe drinking a cup of a coffee too and I think in her slow calming voice. She always pops on my mind I never saw her face. But she always writes my thoughts, it's like she is my thoughts keeper. And All I can say is that awake dreamers are the most dangerous of all.

Mind your beauty

Yesterday I was having a serious conversation with a friend and she suddenly asked me "why you always say that?" I had no clue what she was talking about. Then she said " you always describe a person with something else other than their features, I barely know what they look like, whether they have a great smile, or warm huge, you even disliked someone because you thought their eyes weren't comfortable at all" and she is was right I can remember exactly their features but what I notice the most is the feeling I get toward them, if they smile when they first see me, their moves, their details. I love details in everything; I think it's the most beautifulness in the world, I notice details with every little piece of it. Once I know a person I keep digging in their details searching for their beauty even if they can't see it and once I find it I beam at them on how they blossom more than before. When you notice people details you will figure them out, you will know them deeper and closer, you will even love them more. But I can't really find a person who knew me this deep not this close, I sometime feel that I can understand who's around me more than myself , most of the time I feel like Katherine Heigl in 27 dresses. but I just can't stop this I love it. So whether you've an insane laugh, smiling eyes, tangling hair around your finger (which do all the time =D I know one thing about myself Good) or insanity hug or even humming music, don't ever stop. Some people are too beautiful from the inside to even considering looking at them from the outside.

To write.

I don't know why I always crave writing before I'm going to sleep maybe because the whole day come rushing into my mind at such a moment but I stopped writing while ago, not even my dairy, the inspiration was gone, I couldn't even see the thin rope to pull the inspiration boat back in, I was stunned when I found the 3 chapter I wrote for a book of mine, I completely forgot about it, the first and the only one. but greatly I've met recently inspirational people that I can barely sense the rope quite close.

Go read this

"Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir, open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us, guides us. Passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love, the clarity of hatred, the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion, we’d be truly dead."

— Joss Whedon

A mess

You rare escapist, dwell mind of mine. Blooming beautifully in this curl world wouldn't do it anymore.. Illusion, dreams are hunting me down. I used to spread the tendency of love and beauty of the world with my smile. But then sometimes I feel so empty from inside. I do cry as much as I smile. I feel human collar bones of air. I'm a mess, lost and you wouldn't find me until I find my ownself.

For her

Not mentioning your name doesn't mean I don't love you or you don't love me, What have passed has nothing to do with you , best things better left unsaid and I hope you're okay =) Because I love you thou I'll never understand you but I respect you.