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Today,
I finally realised I was never actually in love with you.

Today,
I figured out that I am still mistaking admiration for intelligent and enigmatic minds for love.

Today,
I learnt that what really drives me in life is not finding someone to love.

Today,
I won't stop until I get what I've wanted all along - a big, fat paycheck with no stress strings attached.

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What am I supposed to do now,
with all of these feelings I have for you?

I knew you a little bit,
just for a short little while.

Then you were out of my orbit,
and the time stretches on to forever.

Yet in both times I feel so intensely,
and these feelings refuse to go away.

I've tried so many ways to forget and move on,
oh a task so much easier said than done, all in all.

My dear how my heart loves you,
loves this idea of you crafted in my head.

Now I'm scared to ever meet you again,
not while I still helplessly feel so strongly for you.

You have become the symbol of perfection,
and it exists only in my mind and in my heart.

Please always stay far away from me,
so I can still hold on to this little bit of you.

Darling it isn't you (whom I love),
it's me (who chooses to love a ghost).

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Quite possibly,
I am beginning to understand my inability to look past all of my flaws, thus creating the same inability in others.

Quite possibly,
I am wholeheartedly doubting my ability to change this unfortunate inclination I seem to have possessed my entire life.

And quite possibly,
it is true what is often said of perfectionists; I alone am harming myself the most, and all without intention.

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There's this cavernous part of me, so cynical and paranoid, that obsesses over what other people might be secretly thinking about me. They are never positive, and I cannot seem to let go of the idea that people only see my flaws and mistakes, terribly magnified and mutated, and because these are silent I can never prove them wrong. In the eyes of the world, to me, I am constantly under the enemy's microscope.

It is endlessly frustrating whenever I'm told to get a grip, to be more confident, to be the standard others expect of me, never minding that these standards are beyond what I am ever able to achieve. It isn't motivation, but a constant reminder of what I can never be, and being made to constantly feel I am worth nothing in their eyes.

It's exactly the feeling of the world creating a magnificent pedestal with my name emblazoned upon it with the sinister intention of it being just enough out of my reach, in full display for all to mock and wrongly justify that I've disappointed them.

The worst part of it all happens on days when I wake up feeling extremely positive - of my state of mind, my body image, my life direction, my little victories, my instincts and decisions - only to be told how wrong I am about these very things, or how terribly disappointed or dismissive others are about them.

Where is the justice then, when others in the very same position are lauded loudly and proudly for doing the exact same things I'm being belittled for? And right to my face? How am I expected to have any faith at all when the world has long disregarded any faith in me and I am nothing more than a pawn for others to continuously make a mocking example of?

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With a little bit of patience
and little bit of imagination,
one way or another
all broken things can be fixed.

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How is it possible
to have a heart
that feels
incredibly full and
inexplicably empty
at the same time?

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How does one measure
immaterial worth?

More and more I find myself
unable to relate to the expectations of others;
rarely do they align with me.

The off-chance symmetry happens,
the patterns exist
only in my mind
and makes not the feeblest of waves
in the lives of others.

(But why
does worth have to matter
at all?)

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Lately, I'm learning that I'm incapable of receiving love. My heart loves easily, and it loves passionately, and it seems over the years it's learnt to only love those that cannot love it back. Ideas and memories. Places and personalities. Little things - so insignificant, so transient. My heart only knows how to give, and when there's nothing left, when I've exhausted it all, it falls apart because I've never learnt how to accept it back.

I may never learn how to accept it back.

The simple truth is I believe it unnatural for me to be loved in any measure. The simple truth is I've never believed a single person who's ever told me they love or care about me. It's silly, because I know a number of people who do for a fact, yet fact and my own distorted belief has somehow co-existed in my mind for so long that both make equal sense. It isn't real to me. It isn't natural. Life isn't some feelgood after school special where "I love you"s are followed by warm hugs and fuzzy feelings. Reality for me means I'm expected to love the ones around me without condition or return because that's just how the world works.

To the wonderful you, reading this; here is my "I love you", wrapped only with my sincerity and without a return address.

Please don't think too much of it. I love you because it's only natural.

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My mind has always been inundated with thoughts I can't articulate, for one reason or another, sometimes for none at all. They are riddled with disconnect from one thought to the next. Much like a fine tangle of threads - pulling at one might unravel another.

Someday, I like to imagine, when I meet someone new, I wouldn't ask them to introduce themselves in the normal fashion. "What color are your dreams? Do you still think about your favorite scent when you were five? Where do you keep your smile when it isn't in use? By the way, how do I address you?" But for all my curiosities, I'm far too used to regulation.

I dream a lot, even when I'm awake. I'm sure it happens to everyone, one way or the other. In the short time it takes for me to take a sip of coffee, my mind wonders about things from how good a slice of cake would taste along with the sip, to whether my waistband feels a little off-center, and if coffee would have no scent in space. Do scents exist in space?

Sometimes, the busy thoughts in my head revolve around people. Those I love, those I want to get closer to, even those I meet once and never again. I don't really like talking about myself, so I tend to wonder about everyone else. It's my curiosity again, and I think it would be simply amazing if I can order conversations along with my pizza. Tell me about your day. Tell me the first thought that crosses your mind when I say 'magic'. Do you believe in magic? I don't mean the kind with wands and potions and abracadabra. Somehow I feel inadequate, in that I never seem to have anything interesting to add to conversations, but there lies a secret to be kept.

Is there a thing such as having implicit trust? In a friend, a diary, a hideaway. If promises are meant to be broken, then what use are secrets once they pass your lips? The trouble with being curious... it doesn't kill. It only leads to more questions no matter how many have been answered. There's an almost insatiable need to know, if only because I'm certain my mind is one that clings to the idea of enigma. The more questions I have unanswered, the more attracted it becomes.

And people, to me, are often enigmas.

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I have an insatiable curiosity of people; of friends and colleagues and strangers on the streets. There isn't a person I meet, be it daily or for two fleeting seconds, whose life choices do not intrigue me. I am surrounded by walking enigmas, and the very idea of mystery excites me no matter how subtle.

Where do you come from, and where are you going? What makes you smile, and why do you cry? How have you struggled, and what are your victories? Tell me your stories - my mind thrives on painting worlds with your thoughts and experiences.

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Sometimes I wonder
if you've ever realised
all the unspoken lessons
I've silently learnt from you.

These are the things
I will always treasure the most.

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I've grown weary of hardness.
These days I only crave
the soft things in life:
softness in emotions
and words and gestures...
and softness in my heart
so I can learn to let go
of pain, anger, loneliness
and such like.

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The most defining trait I possess is not my looks or my voice, not my smile or my laughter. There have been others in my life, so easily described by how their eyes shone when they talked and made every tale seem more interesting than it is; or how their presence is magnetic enough to seize intrigue in those around them; or how negatively they perceive news and information that their occasional joy is eclipsed with assumptions of cynicism. My eyes do not shine when I speak. My presence does not command attention at the drop of a hat. I am not so bound to pessimism that my happiness is misunderstood. The thing that defines me, a trait not many realise I possess, is my inability to express my thoughts into words in the moment.

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I wish I was the type who could create worlds in words.

As happy as I am on each birthday where I'm constantly surprised by the love I receive from the people around me, there's still that easily distracted part of me that thinks about turning into a dandelion seed just so I can take to the skies and watch everything from a different point of view. But seeds have no eyes, no mind, no heart. My fantasies remain worlds inside my head.

Today, I'm grateful, but the word seems to carry no true weight. The human heart isn't made of fabric and stuffing, yet mine feels bursting at the seams. How does one describe the feeling of a thankful heart leaking out through the gaps of stitches to permeate the entire me in one simple word? I'm filled with everyone I love. I'm fueled and lit; a candle, a torch. Am I dazzling enough to light up the lives of the lovely souls around me?

Today, I'm moving on, but the phrase seems too vague to have meaning. I am apologetic, for the sadness I've been cradling of late, for the burden I've inadvertently placed on others and myself. Being kind, for the longest time, meant placing everyone on shining pedestals except myself. Deservedly, for all the people I love and cherish are special and important... but perhaps, today, I will start building my own little pedestal.

Today, I'm content, but the idea behind the word seems superficial.

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I'm dreaming

Of little not-quite-stories

Unfinished melancholies

And I can't ink them fast enough

These words - a little rough

Around the edges and inwards

Into themselves are little worlds

Would you hear them out for me?

I'm feeling

Unknown peculiarities

A tingle of memories

I can't truly lay claim as mine

And emotions - they intertwine

Making falsities glimmer like truth

Yet in truth I am confused

Would you say it out for me?

I'm waiting

For skyfalls and shoe drops

For time, how it loops and stops

Like a heartbeat jolted abrupt

Everything can simmer and erupt

And time then turns meaningless

An accessory for the masses

Would you hold it out with me?