Far From Over

I heard those words. I realized I have been using the lines that I hear as my titles - be it from music, movie, conversation, and common expressions. (Back to Square OneCigarettes After SexWhatever Helps You Sleep at Night10 Things I Hate About YouYou Reap What You Sow...)

"Pain is a perfect ingredient for poetry," they say. But I decided not to make poetry anymore. At least not for now.

Yet this is poetic.
Writing is always poetic. As it must be. 
Among all things, why is pain still poetic? What is so poetic about pain? Is it the emotion that expresses what it is like to be human? Is it the beauty of ugly things? Ironic. We have agreed that pain isn't always dull but of the essence. We have perfected the narrative of turning such agony and remorse into motivation and change. How exhaustive is that? Can you imagine?

Always learning from a loss. Almost yielding into ordeals.
Far from over
We are far from over repeating such an unending cycle of beautification of worse situations. It's better than indulging oneself to sadness, as they say. How dare one forbid one to feel?
Yet emptiness is glorified. While depressives are vilified. 
Upon observing what surrounds someone, feeling feelings becomes exclusive to a certain kind of people - those who can afford.
Those who can afford can feel such emotion that those who cannot can't. On the other hand, those who cannot afford can feel such emotion that those who can can't.

To say that life is full of ironies and paradoxes is truly an understatement.

I started typing aiming to write what I'm feeling. But surprisingly this is what I am feeling now - not so different with what I had in mind.

I was to be romantic. Either I'm not and never was, or I got tired being one.

Romance. What a beautiful word. What a painful experience. Such a painful word. Yet a beautiful experience.

Each line of this content is underserved by the writer. They are ought to be expounded as much as one could. However, one cannot totally speak his mind when his mind is lost for words. So one ends up asking questions until it becomes rhetorical.

Playing with words has become a habit, or at least when time permits. Randomness helps but stops.

This is a poem, okay? Let me remind you.

A poem that is far from over because one cannot afford to end something that one hasn't started.

Let me begin then. So I can finally end it.

-TBWS
22 June 2019


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