My Love Proses

Prose 4: Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, I met a lost girl.

I met a lost girl, face was bruised by unknown, like a blank stationary pad in an empty store. She is staring at the sea on its depths, interrogating such questions like a fool. She talks into the body of water, fooling herself once more, telling whims like no one has ever tried to listen at her.

She is devoid of translucence hidden within the moon, skin caresses the fresh scent of solitude and eyes creates rainbow everytime it melts the drops of sweet heaven rain from above.

She has the ideals of an immaculate angel when seen through her monotonous physique even though, all of it was just artificially originated from the demons inside her head. She keep smiling in every single circumstance she cope upon, whether an entire river crafted by perilous daggers or wide ocean made of beautiful memories.

She never fails convincing the stars to sum up itselves just to know how far the night could make a constellation for her, all at once. She is sometimes filled with happiness as if she tells this huge universe that no one deserves to swim in pain.

She does not lose herself in encouraging every creature to breathe because the air never dare to give up on anyone else so that everybody could live even more. She always try to wake up her brave soul each day amid the darkest of sunset summoning her to rest and sleep.

She could no longer feel the breeze of life but only those eerie bells of death yet she let her heart remember the reason why she deserve to open her eyes.

She is fully aware how weak she was until this very fleeting moment, however, still writes aching words of encouragement to survive. She tries to overcome the false belief that none has ever realise her worth, where in fact, living spirits tend to shape the pieces of her broken emotion into whole again.

She truly visualized reality as a nightmare full of empty hopes, black-tainted promises and endless tears because she cannot trust the whispers of sun rays saying:

"Someone will paint wonderful colors and consider you as a work of art."

She hides only to deny the accusation that she is one of the literature they once cherishly dreamed to become a legend. She calms herself but the creeping voices inside her is much more louder than worship of joy and scream of tears from the outside desperately wished to be heard.

She slowly fades into the grains of sand.

She slowly lulls herself in the music of agony.

She closes her lonely world under rainy season built from shattering pillowtalks and late regrets.

She speaks through silence coming from the corners of her heart.

She is born with flaws and scars yet she recognizes it all as her sacred tattoos to fill her tilted imperfection.

She is identically comparable to women who acquires to be loved by somebody, someone who could consider her as a fallen eternal gift from the sky.

She is still a woman who loves commemorating herself as disciple to God despite the ambiance of hell that her palms created just to escape under living fires around the globe.

She continues to believe, more and more, that everything will turns out fine someday— in the right and perfect time.

She is not the adventurous woman they seem to expect because the time has not come yet where she will surely meant to follow her own road of tomorrow. Thus, soon enough will come until she could fly her way back to where she really belong.

Soon, she will be back home.