The Ballad Between The Moon and The Wolf

“How long can tonight last?”, asked the wolf.

Its whisper through the forest, an unkempt secret like a tattoo carved deeply in the branches; spreading across the indian rosewood tree. The wolf stared at the moon, glaring light throughout the valley and each night, it hunts for its own and the moon will always show the way. Relentless on its beating, the wolf slowly pressed its way through every bush, wondering how it came to a certain point of asking such an immeasurable question.

Like all the other nights, it’s dark—the wind gushing between every sleeping flesh. “I’ll only exist for a few hours.”, replied the moon softly on a cold and cloudy night. “Can I share it with you?”, asked the wolf again as it watched the trees sway across the moonlight. The moon smiled in unison.

And as the seasons change, conversations danced; one word to another. And the wolf still stayed, a being made alive and adored by the moonlight. And although the wolf has only been a believer of one thing but the moon is changing it now, the moon knows differently. And even though the moon and the wolf doesn’t always use words to write, but there’s a ballad in between their fond touched smiles and the way the moon tug the covers off the wolf’s paws every single night.

How long can a love last? How long can tonight last?”, this time it’s the moon asking to itself—and I’ve never seen shadows pour out of someone’s mouth like that.

For You

I really don’t know where to start, even though I usually don’t run out of metaphors but lately, it’s been like a clouded parchment and I may or may not have riddled out everything but I’m starting to get a grasp of something. I don’t know if I’m connecting and naming the right constellations between the tiny dots that you’ve laid out on my palms but I’ve already grown a lot more familiar to you and I only know how to keep you tucked in between two random pages like my favorite love letter hoping one day you’ll find your presence in these words; how I have felt so deeply for so long yet not knowing it myself is a mystery.

But I do believe that I owe you a lot of things; things I wish I could easily do and things I wish I would’ve easily done if it were possible for me to do it. And you might have already thought that I carry a lot of metaphors in the pockets of my mind and nothing I ever say is binary. And when given the choice between yes and no, my palms reached for a maybe because maybe, maybe this time you’re starting to get a grasp of something too.

And for quite a long time, we keep watching the slow drift of seasons from our windows in different locations. But you see, I never quite learnt how to pronounce intimacy so when you try to make a home out of my barred heart, my fingers still tremble to give you the key. I’m not really that well versed in the intricacies of how I’m going to begin again so forgive me. And I also know that you’ve also been through a lot and it’s okay—and I understand because like you, I also feel everything deeply. And we both want the universe and everything in it. We want to hold it. We want to keep it close by and fix things to make it better. Despite of it all, we’re still the eager ones.

I wish I had answers as to why—why we’re the fragile ones. But I’d like to think that one day everything we try to give will be appreciated because truthfully, we are rare and beautiful souls. And out of the different paralleling cosmos and contradicting patterns, you’re the only one making everything a little less heavy. So wherever you are, if you feel things deeply—please don’t stop. I won’t stop either. We won’t stop trying. Soon enough, I will run across you or maybe, you’ll run across me and everything will start to feel like we’re both crashing waves trying to come home.

Until then, think of me when you’re driving in your car, when every turn you take might bring you closer to me. And I will also think of you on roads that are less travelled, on roundabouts and never-ending seams. I will think of you for the beauty in which our hearts have felt and though it will be difficult at times like how worthy things are, I will always believe in the audacity of our underlying differences and likeness. I will always believe in you. If you’re reading, these are all laid out for you.

In Two Parts

So there’s this guy…

And I’ve been wanting to write about him for a long time but I’m always trapped between my sentences because there are like millions of ways to splatter his name unto paper but there aren’t any words that are right enough to describe him as a whole. Empty parchments of everything that’s openly gazing in space between the moon and the sun where I watch and pour out smiles like light; like asking, like answering. I can’t help myself you see, every midnight feels like dawn. It undoes the darkness, a slow process of flooding light, like opened blinds at the first sight of the morning sun. And like pooling warmth, it splatters lightly on my chest. And maybe I was wrong. Maybe there is a word to describe this guy. Maybe it all starts with you.

Maybe it all starts with remembering the first time I learned the alphabet. How those strange characters grew more and more familiar. And then, I remember learning his name. The strange jumble of letters that danced at the back of my mind; those two syllables that slid deep into my soul. I remember how I whispered them on long days when the miles stretch longer than the hours it really takes to reach him and his voice echoes in my ears despite the way he haven’t even said a word.

And at night when the world is supposed to be one, when all I want is to wake up and hear his voice like they’re the most important piece than anything else, he’ll be miles away. And I wish I could turn everything back to when I was only a few meters away from meeting him. Maybe that’s the only way I can keep him close.

Truthfully, I’ve never had such a need as this to write for him or about him, but maybe that’s the same thing. He accidentally gave me the ability to write again no matter how much of these shaking fingers may protest. And in the way that beautiful things can be caught on camera, he captures the most riddling metaphors and eloquence altogether. His eyes cannot be compared to anything that could ever be warm because they’re warmer. I feel like solid ice slowly melting into liquid that day he smiled on screen. And maybe the words will find me guilty with harmony when this soliloquy ends but I have to admit in two parts…

Reading him has made me a better writer; loving him has made me a better person.

Does Your Heart Know Anything Else?

Hearts bruise where we ached and we’d all see a different kind of beautiful. With a familiar skin of a mapped out past, maybe, we’d have a better understanding. We’ll have the marks of blue solar systems, encircling over each knot in our spines. There’d be deep navy in the outstretched tips of our fingers from yearning, from reaching, from holding on and letting go. Colors blooming on the soles of our feet from walking and walking and running with inconsistent monotony. We have marks in our chest, splattered over our racing hearts. We were bodies that hold dark fingerprints by soft things that define who we are.

Yet, planets circle in motion, seasons change and forests grow. And suddenly, our heart beats slowly, quietly soft like fingers on the gentle beginning of your chords. And in the space it takes for a heart to beat, the silence is at its loudest. It resides in our chest. This time, not hammering inside our throat, not threatening to jump out if you open our mouth. It guides us from the middle, pressing into our ribs until we follow it forward. It’s unfamiliar but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It’s supposed to be fast, it’s supposed to be fluttering but after a long time, it has become calm knowing it was ill. It knows what it wants right now. With a complete certainty that its soundtrack is steady and slow, a single pulse resonates through our veins and we feel free again. The nerves no longer have the teeth to bite in our own skin, as we discover like we’re standing in the sun for the first time.

Does Your Heart Know Anything Else?

And maybe, this is what it feels like to have sunshine running through our veins. I wonder whether anyone would be able to see it leaking as if I was about to turn my skin into forests too. Yet I stood, held up by the beginning of a familiar thrumming rhythm. His name tumbled out from their lips. And this is where the stars and the planets and the things and the circumstances have aligned to create this very moment. For a short span of time, it all belonged to me.

Does Your Heart Know Anything Else?

“So, does your heart know anything else?”

And suddenly, my entire universe knows this one, the one where everything holds its breath. I know this one, the one that happens under my skin, and the one that feels like my becoming.

And suddenly, words don’t stick to paper as well. It’s a shame though, losing a sad poet like that.

(Another) Excerpt From A Book I’ll Never Write


Sometimes, I take hours to remember a single word in my own tongue. Then it’s suddenly six in the morning and I’m scrabbling to urgently write down the last few words before they fade forever and I didn’t know that it was possible to write in my sleep. And sometimes, I find myself writing an underestimated art—the ones where I paint colorful images in people’s minds by using words of black and white.

Another Excerpt, Maybe

But it’s different now. It’s kind of bizarre actually.

They’re the ones that I didn’t see coming; the ones that get under my skin yet it doesn’t make me unsteady, but it makes me question about everything I believed about the universe, about me. They’re the ones I am infuriatingly and inexplicably drawn to. They weren’t quick and futile though. They were gradual. It’s just a matter of time; but there will always be something delicate about it, so fragile.

And the truth is, there will always be pieces of me in everything I have written. After all, what is a writer but a fragment of her own verses. And some days, I feel like my soul is being pulled in one direction and my heart towards another.

I usually tell myself that it’s best to write about the first thing that comes into my mind, the thrumming rhythm that implicates me—those lingering thoughts that needs salvation and on the other hand, the one thing that also absolves me.

And if nothing ever comes of it, at least I have known this feeling.

“I’ve never met you before, but I recognize this feeling.”

A Writer’s Block

Staring off a blank page while telling myself that I must not write lies for words have an unconscious way of deceiving people until words become verses that slowly bleed out into each other. And somewhere between a woman and a daughter, curly and messy hair pushed back, becomes the slightest fragile little human on Earth. Just like that, fragments become whole, stitches pull tight and excerpts creating a whole something of their own.

A Writer's Block

But then lately, I’ve been trying to decipher a lot from my own words and some place in-between prose and poetry are strips of woven words that aren’t just stories, but spilled guts and beating hearts that come together as things that make up another soul. Maybe this way, eyes that roam over words on paper can also become lips that curl and speak with hope.

Then I told myself that I must not write lies because when I read them out, people might think that I have a beautiful mind, yet a tragic soul. I must not write lies because they might think that I don’t give much and faking something beautiful just so I can ink the pages is just truly and absurdly pathetic. And only then, I realized that I should never write about something just for the sake of letting others fill the silence with their own interpretation.

But really, I must write of what I yearn as of the moment. I must write that we could meet someone who has a heart that looks like ours but different in a way that change made it grew even fonder. We might not exactly tell how it’s been for the past few years but that doesn’t matter now. It has learned a lot.

And I must probably write about the certain traces of each of us scattered around that we can’t quite decide if we’ve been here or if they are just pieces of our own ghosts—like those hands that left invisible marks on our skin, like maps and remnants spreading like wildfire into our veins. And maybe, I should also write about the beauty of living in black and white, of dull greys and concrete silence—but once touched, everything in-between comes alive.

Lastly, I must write of words that could also speak through my eyes so that when you look at me, standing in front of a crowd with knees shaking and voice trembling of words from all the other excerpts I’ve made, you will not only hear my hollow verses and grey areas, but also my fragile words and beautifully stolen conversations.

This Is How We Will Become A Doctor (Someday)

They say that life is but a game full of puzzles and contradicting theories curated on various platforms. Some say that to live a meaningful and happy life, you must first find yourself. And honestly, getting to know yourself is one of the few important roads you’ll traverse in this game.

This Is How We Will Become A Doctor (Someday)

And I believe that we are all pretty familiar about new beginnings and fresh starts—thanks to the calendar that it happens every year. One day it’s January first and the next thing you know is you’re almost halfway through the year already. But one thing that’s really great about a fresh start is learning how to put your past behind you, and start over. It’s definitely hard to resist at the chance of a new beginning yet who gets to determine when the old ends, and the new begins? I don’t think it’s a day in the calendar, not a birthday, not a new year. It’s an event—big or small. Something that changes us. Ideally, something that gives us hope. I don’t know how many reasons there are that gives you hope but I’m sure that healing the world gives me hope. Seeing a young girl’s smile amidst the poverty gives me hope. Hearing a newborn’s cry in between an airstrike in Syria gives me hope.

I know. We’re all susceptible to it—pain. The dread and anxiety of not knowing what’s coming. It may seem pointless in the end because all the worrying could or couldn’t happen and we might spend our whole lives trying to predict the future, as if figuring it out will somehow cushion the blow. But one thing’s for sure, the future is always changing. It might be the home of our deepest fears and our wildest hopes but when it finally reveals itself, the future is never the way we imagined it.

And just when we think that we’ve figured things out, the universe throws us a curveball. So we have to improvise. We find happiness in unexpected places. We find our way back to the things that matter to us the most. The universe is ironic that way. Sometimes, it just has a way of making sure we wind up exactly where we belong. And at some point you have to make a decision. Boundaries don’t keep other people out. They fence you in. That’s how we’re made, so you can waste your life drawing them or you can live your life crossing them.

But there are some lines that are way too dangerous to cross and here’s what I know: if you’re willing to take the chance knowing that the view from the other side is spectacular, take it. Somehow, we all deserve to be great. And we might feel a little robbed when our expectations aren’t met but sometimes, they sell us short. Sometimes, the expected simply pales in comparison with the unexpected. Then, we start to wonder why we cling to our expectations. And I think that’s maybe because the expected is what keeps us steady—standing still. I believe that the expected is just the beginning. The unexpected is what will change our lives.

This Is How We Will Become A Doctor (Someday)

And I think that we should always remember that there’s an end to every storm. Once all the trees have been uprooted. Once all the houses have been ripped apart. The wind will hush. The clouds will part. The rain will stop. The sky will clear in an instant and only then, in those quiet moments after the storm, do we learn who was strong enough to survive it. And we all know that failure is inevitable, unavoidable but it should never get the last word. We have to hold on to what you want. We have to not take no for an answer and take what’s coming to you. Never give in, never give up. Stand up. Stand up and take it. Because sometimes, the key to making progress is to recognize how to take that very first step. Then we start our journey. We hope for the best and we stick with it, day in and day out. Even if we’re tired, even if we want to walk away. We don’t. Because we will be a doctor.

And nobody ever said it’d be easy.