WIth the company of an acoustical playlist, leftover nicotine rations from yesterday, a good read awaiting its opening and mummy dearest humming to the tracks spinning on my most wonderful desktop computer, life paints a breathing irony.

These days, I fall flat on my face just to await godsents adjourning me up back into place. Idle moments like this are passed taking strolls down memory lane. Nostalgia is such beautiful melancholy. It grows and ticks in me with blooming life. I know I tend to get too pensive and wordy about memories, but with every song, movie, picture, scene, person, instills an engraved footprint somewhere along my past 21 years. Sometimes, I wish I could be more elaborate with indites pertaining to memories in this written playground of mine. I wish I wouldn't be so hard on myself for being literal. Each time a phrase of literal rambles is being typed, it'd be backspaced just as soon. It's a hurdle I could never take a hop over and this is how my muse is signatured mine. I used to composite pretty and metaphoric prose and poems but reality has fatigued my words into an endless plain of complaints and rants. The skies of blue and clouds of white, bright blessed days and dark sacred nights indeed make this a wonderful world. Yet, at joy, a rush of sorrow always surges through the apple jammed at my throat and time after time, as boxed up my emotions may be, I relent to them. Like any other, like all others, I am fragile, vulnerable, weak and I am capable of crumbling. It's a condition of a type of handicap. It's a loss of control and ability to retrieve inner stability. It has to start from myself, isn't it?

Marion, if only words would suffice, if only words could reach the heavens, if only the Lord could use me and my meticulous carve of words to bring you back, if only you were here to help me through this tide of confusion. If only there were more photographs of you to be placed on my walls, if only you were here to take more with me. Everything stops at fifteen, everything stopped at fifteen. If only I could fear less so I could love more freely. It's not a prayer I send up to you, it's conversations I hold with you and God at the simultaneously, it's prayers I send up to the Big Man for you. And it's little moments such as this I spend wishing I was fifteen. This is the shape of my heart for you. I miss you.

Am I mad? Have we all lost our minds? I think there's more to this than what I'm saying but I can't seem to find the best words to summarise this.

This is the reason why I should never have time to myself to dwell. Dwelling gets evil when I'm at it.

I didn't check my punctuation, grammar, spelling and what not, so don't get there.