Raindrops of Thinking

  — by Blue I would always see her portrait hanging just above the corner of the staircase that connected the upper and lower parts of the house. That staircase acted like a gateway or the divide between heaven and hell, and her face the gatekeeper with the eyes that could see anyone—everyone. She was always there, and I always aware.  I could not remember when the first time that portrait of hers were hanged inside the house. Perhaps it has always been there, long before I was born. I'm not sure. All I know is that one day, it was there and I could see her.  Her name was something I should've remembered but I couldn't bring myself to. It brought me nightmares in bed that my mind chose to bury it away out of my reach.  Her hair is raven black, her skin pale as sickly white. She was lean and she had a cat resting on her bony left arm. The scaly fingers of her right hand caressed the fur of the mischievous creature. Her eyes, they were the emptiest orbs I have ever seen, so e

  — by Blue The old me wouldn’t have imagined a time such as this would come. I have never dreamed of it, not exactly. But now that I somehow kind of have it, I realize how much I have longed for it all along. It’s a mystery that I couldn’t quite explain or solve. I only know how certain I am, wishing every night that I might not lose it. It Is something so out of my reach at first. Even now I truly wonder if this is nothing but a mirage in the midst of mocking reality. What if everything that makes this up is a figment of my imagination? What if this person is nothing but a sham? What if everything else is a lie? It's that hard to believe. They say seeing is believing, but then I chose to believe what I am feeling instead. Something that I couldn’t yet hold. Something that I haven’t even laid my eyes upon. Something filled with beautiful promises that I firmly hold on to as they grow in number and never less. Now I have a mountain of wishes and a beaming ray of hope. But here c

 — by Blue [ TRIGGER WARNING ] if you repeatedly say the same word over and over and over again, you'll soon end up in a situation where you'd see that word as nothing but nonsense. it has now turned into nothing more than a lump of letters grouped together to form this thing that you used to mean what you had in your head, until than meaning disappeared. after that, you start to question its existence. you start to doubt its credibility. you start to doubt whether its even real.  people say those quotes every time.  "if you say the same thing again and again, after a few tried it'll lose its meaning."  ... like sorry. apologies are one of the things almost always attached to this saying making it deeper than the simple mind games you put yourself in to because you decided you wanted to be silly and so you said the word "garage" like a hundred times... maybe more.  thank you sounds a nice example as well. if you say thank you a couple of times, you'd

  — by Blue [ trigger warning: mentions of suicide ] I could still recall all the moments where my heart felt like it would explode. Those were the moments that most people would have expected me to scream and speak my mind, but I did the opposite. I silenced myself while my brain continued to shout and shout with a voice that never got tired. It was only my heart that grew weary, aging before the years took its toll. I am neither young nor old. The years that I have behind me are too green for anyone to call me old. Yet my world is too gray, too morbid to be compared with ambitious youngsters living their youth. My phone rang an alarm that sounded more like a warning than a simple notification. I used to think of this sound to be the same as my favorite music I would always request on the radio. But before I knew it, it became more like the sound used in horror movies. The ones that scare you into a jump scare. I wonder when everything changed to be that way.  “Hello,” I said. My

   — by Blue  [ trigger warning: talks about suicide, manipulation]   An adventure, it is not for everyone. Others seek it. Some would rather it not be there. It is purely a waste of time. No matter how fairy tales gloss their stories over, a journey requires a lot of things and it poses a lot of danger. All she could see was nothing but death.  But once upon a time, when the woman was but a little girl, she longed for an adventure within her pages. When all was blank and the fates were still uncertain, she had dared to wish for a driven tale to fill the paper of her past with sparkling words that would make other kids envy her. With just the right journey and a catching title page, she was sure the lot of them would want to read what she would have to offer. They would put her book on their shelves, with her name written in bold letters on the cover.  It was then that she coincidentally met a friend.  "How did that even happen?" she would ask herself in the future in plain w

  — by Blue           The sound of the keyboard is music to my ears. The ink of the pen left on my notebooks are like paintings for me. But no matter how much I enjoy them, they are only half of what they were intended. What is the use of a message when it is nothing but unsent mail? Scrapped letters are meant for the bin.           Yet I could never throw them away. Even if they could never reach the height of their destiny, I could never resent them. They hold a part of me that I have carefully crafted out of the half truths of my soul.  ***          If someone where to write a letter for every word that I have chosen not to speak of, I would have a mountain of letters with not enough postmen to deliver them. If someone were to honestly filter out the truth from the lies, the reality from deception, I wouldn't have been left with just a smiling face and empty eyes. I would instead be granted the never ending paper that bore the messages that I would have wanted to send.