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I have always despised clamor and disturbance in any way yet I'm a disciple of music with loud bass drums and electric guitars. I wanted to shut off my surroundings and sleep in between the comforting silence. But sometimes, wearing my hundred-fifty peso earphones all night—whilst my favorite song echoes on repeat—gave a peculiar lull greater than the warmth my pillows have brought me. Peace, no matter how transient—made me alive for the time being. It made me weave words I never thought held grace in their way. There's magic along with breathing in the crickets of my mind that made writing on crystalline leaves possible.
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But what do you think about rainy seasons? I say there's a soothing voice in its coldness that will put me in my dreams. And the kind of love that I long for once I've sat in front of our fireplace. But its barbaric pouring on my ceiling is something I am not so fond of. It strikes the fear of something horrible but I can't hear it. The horror of witnessing what has to be seen but I lie awake with little to no knowledge of it. Others happen at night, in the freezing gloom of my bed as it cascaded non-stop—as if it rained solid rocks I'm about to be buried beneath with insomnia. And it is a scary scourge of rest that instead haunts me even in daylight like a ring of some sort of spell.
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I wanted it to shut up. I wanted to jail it in a jar so it won't rob me of my peace. The clatter of every sound that made my bones stretch must be drowned mute. It should not exist within the earshot of my well-tended tranquility. The miserable gasp of chaos must leave my mind if it whispers nothing but trouble and exasperation.
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The rattle in my brain is what I'm enraged by the most. This. This is my bothered soul open from its roots like an autopsy. It's a pull from the parade of my thoughts, forgotten one by one as it renewed in my mind like a Joker's play. And so it goes on and on as I traipse my steps backward enough to be at bay only to be pushed again. Mayhap I cannot escape the weep of the universe when it resides in the very same home I found silence. It was waiting to be triggered when I cannot resurface myself anymore from the waves of something dead mid-air. I've heard those cries that resonated from a quiet mouth. I am burnt from the hell that rioted in my mind as it is capable of relief and agony altogether. And that's when I figured I'm one of those who couldn't have it as well.
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Peace is a found treasure and damnation in a syllable that sometimes people just couldn't afford in unison. That's why if you are embedded in the calmness of it all, you will run mad and vanish in place because the world is simply uproaring. That even we cannot hush at a single flick of our palm. I was entitled to the mere trance it has engulfed in my system. All the while it crawled up my sleeves in a short-lived memento, I was naming it for something exquisite. Something that I should possess. Something that I must reach for.
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But there's a disparaging kind of woe when everything is just in a continuous noise and I was able to cast down yet something close to cruelty. I hid in those little versions of what I deemed calm and wrote to live. Yet I have run out of metaphors to bled and all that's left were remnants of weakened phrases. There was no magic at all. No kind of fantasy that revived a somber soul. Nothing close to what comforts me when I listen to songs.
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One that only exists is my delusion of what makes up my being. But there is none of that—it has perished within my rotten brain. Like a jump from one place to another and back again only to move carelessly; shiver ceaselessly; think endlessly.
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@rks.wuhdrelis
A warrior of liberty. With ink stains on her mind and soul. Maayong adlaw! This page contains the information you might want to know about the author. She goes by the name Arques and is under the username @rks.wuhdrelis. She lives in Cebu, Philippines, and is a proud Bisaya. She is a listener of music and is currently drowning in the rhythm of her pop-punk playlist. And she reads too, either depressing or hilarious books. Words from MJ, btw.
Arques is an 18-year-old girl, on a mission to her dream college and a writer wannabe is her reputation. There's a thin line between writing and music that enthralls her mind to scribble every time she has a chance to. To write is to dream and to dream is to be free. Except for nightmares, she believes so. She fancies writing prose poetries that is usually about childhood, life, love, tragedy, something peculiar, or even unnamed emotions. Stay tuned!
