Star Cross'd Lovers

As i watch helplessly as my cousin breathed his last. I took the note out of my pocket as he slip it in earlier. Watching them die slowly, silently, yet happily together. My eyes starts to tears. I open the note with my hands shaking, trembling.

"Still in this life, I loved, I've sinned;
An enemy, a Capulet my love is within;
For my one true Beauty, for this one i breathe;
Through this dreadful mistake, I unlive;
There'll be Love, and there will be Fate;
Slowly with Love, We'll drove the Hate;
If we've not met, then i would forget;
I've blinded my heart, with the Love that i had."

It seems like he knows that now is their final moments together. They've started a new chapter of. Hopefully this war will end. Hopefully this wont start any revenge.

Benvolio Montague

Time Steals The Day

What if the sun turned its back on the day and the moon was ever-present?
Would we miss the light like the deserts miss the rain?
Does it take absence for us to appreciate existence?
If we intend to live on such volatile grounds, we only exist like we live to die.

Relationships are the cause of all human suffering. This was why arlette is rather reclusive and embraced an unconventional world built against the borders of fact and fiction. When they met, the titan clashed.

There was once a story about a river which had been poisoned to create uniformity amongst the masses. The king refused to drink from the river because he refused to be regulated. Soon, his people began to reject him for his unconvential wisdom. This variation was compartmentalized as insanity.

Are we insane for drinking from the same river?

The truth is that nothing was built in monochrome but Arlette chose shades of grey because the lack of colour allowed more room for light. Sometimes, peculiarity made more sense than the commonly-held beliefs.

Arlette felt like she was breathing a beat that hummed a humdrum existence. The life in which was often described as colourful and meaningful made her feel dull. Silence can be so comfortably deafening in comparison to mindless bitter banters.

She often wished she could submerge herself into an author's still thoughts in the form a book which spelt mystery and magic, smoke and mirrors. It is peculiar how the cowards of reality find consolation behind an illusion. Her world would be of trampolines, singing lions, dancing ducks and people did nothing but have fun for a living.

The reality of it all was that she was having the least fun right now. Rock, paper, scissors. Her procreated existence is sure as a rock, her principles tore like paper and scissors made a precise incision towards her emotions. Physics never stood a chance against reality.

Oneness

She sat against the oceans of the sun, wasting her wilted life and witnessing the minutes die, as the new dawn approaches. Thora sighed at her own miniature thoughts, evoking a sense of discomfort, as she stared through the eyes of the sun.

How can one disappear from the light of oneself?

She muzzled, as the waves washed her sand-clad feet. Light upon her gaze, she stared blankly as the warmth touches her facade. Dawn relieved her of her dismal, tormented being. Enthralled by her own misguided nature, she tread amongst her own, which continued to plague her palette visions. Nevertheless, Thora found wisdom in the form of dawn. She savoured the knowledge, as the receiver of light, and feared the inevitable that would engulf her nature amongst the shadows.

Sigh.

She felt a breeze, as it swept past her. A sandstorm is brewing, the coming of a perfect storm. She picked herself up, dust off the sands, and took a remaining glance at the sun. She whispered the kalimah, in appreciation of the life that was resurrected in front of her. A recurring scene, that occurs yet remained unappreciated at times. The waves splashed and tickled her feet, as she trickled her toes beneath the waters, bemused.

She turned, trudged along the sands carelessly, and headed north towards the barren land. The oceans deserted her, as the mirage tore itself beneath her teary eyes.

She was home.

Gust

"I went to the root of things, and found nothing but Him alone." - Mira Bai


Ronin shift amongst the shades. Fading in and out, losing himself between time, as he tried to keep his feet on the ground. The environment swayed from earthly green to deathly greys. He was dazed, limping on a strained leg that saw him threading the globe on false limbs. Yet, he remain undeterred. The clouds hurl itself, in purple pain, as lightning dashes at it's nearest victim. Thoughts swirled with an aroma of chaos, as Ronin gathered his balance and move unevenly. He was the epidemic of an unforeseen realm, the epidemy of madness. He wished for the end of time, his time. For, he wished to be no part of a world, whose inhabitants bicker and insult at the slightest misdemeanour they could ever wag their tongues upon. He was part of their slippery tongues, wagged and spitted in the most sarcastic form of distaste. Yet, he blurred his vision and heart, for they are merely shadows, like him. A shadow amongst a shadow. He fought alone, in a war raged by the Columbines, who endlessly perpetuate his demise.


The killer in me is the killer in you.


A fog swept through the alleys, smothering the rainbows, and the lights dimmed bringing life to the shadows. He was lost in the face of time, and his own deteriorating condition. The alleys borne whispers amongst the shadows, slips of the tongues by the snakes and canines spurned echoes of lies and deceptions. He picked up his momentum and race for the bridge, at the end of the fog.


Not this time, he sighed.


Once too many, he had seek refuge in the wilderness, for tranquility and unperturbed therapy. Nevertheless, they haunt him like a pack of lies, slither amongst the darkness of night. By day, they surfaced from the rivers, harps in one arm and linger around him throughout the eye of the sun. He was disillusioned, failing to see through the crystal daggers dangling in front of him. And when he does, he wished they'd never exist, and hastened his departure. But, he never did, not till the end of another decade. They stitched themselves upon his heart and plagued his desires. He wished for mercy in the hearts of fire, but they engulfed them in the heat and betrayed his trust, for their hearts was raised out of rust.


Never.


The oasis expanded through the deserts, for another decade or so. Ronin's condition deteriorated with the shadows. He became the Reaper's favourite portrait, a living canvas vandalized by the damned. Yet, beneath the oil and palettes lay his very own stenciled existence. It was there and have always been. The groundwork of perfection, unknown to them unless they searched and gazed beyond the mirrors of question. He knew all along, but they hardly emerged from the turmoil that interlaced his thoughts.


Dawn approaches.

The Columbines slipped into the rivers, exhausted in their Nature.

Can I come along too?

They shook their heads, as he watched them dive into the crystal black waters.


Ronin leaned forth as he peered and gazed into the waters. Dumbfounded, the rivers cast no reflection on whatever. Neither the living nor the dead was featured in it's blackened surface. Curiosity grappled him. He poke through the stilled waters, creating a ripple. Somehow, the ripples echoed across the river and into the rising sun. Subsequently, sunlight raced through the waters, touching upon each and every cell that came in their way. The sudden surge in momentum caught him off guard, as he fell on his back. He witnessed the rapid transition in pale confusion, as the waters fade in shades of gray before eliminating it's own in milky white.


That was random, he thought.


It was morning, a random one. That moment struck a familiar painting that he'd once abolished, in a fit of rage. A moment of clarity in the light of morning, he mused. He picked himself up, and spread his sight across the oasis.


Hallucination?


It was breathtaking, an abstract work of nature beyond art. An unseen reality beyond words expressed. Ronin stood by the river in awe, shaken by nature's art. Questions swirled in dots and arrows, across his mantle. He stared at the once-blackened waters, and amazed at the portrait that lies beneath. He saw...


Himself.

He couldn't help but smile. Is this real? Is this 'it'?


He cupped a handful of water and splashed it across his face in delight. Spun around at the neck of the river, he moved deeper into the waters, unnoticed. In the midst of his rapture, something caught his eye, as they were stolen by a vivid reflection that was cast beneath the skies. An underwater city? Or, a kingdom of clouds? Though the skies hardly hold any city above his head, he became the brunt of a heightened curiosity. He spread his arms across the river like a cutting-edge. And as he does, the surface split itself and presented a slippery painting.


A portrait of a city in reverse.


He braved his own thoughts and doubts and the very calamities that accompanied him through the night.


"I've fallen plenty of times than you already knew of, and the whispers that you cast upon. Nevertheless, every breath of your whisper raised me further than you can ever dream of. I am your uprising, and a revolution of your doubts. Whispers kill those who doubt the lives of others..."

They kill you.

He gave one last look at the oasis and the memories of the Columbines. One breath, and the oasis was gone.

Gasp!


Ronin broke down and fell flat on the grounds. Hands of the fog reached forth onto him, but he persevered against their own devices that once had him chained. He turned to face the skies before him. He surpassed through the fog and lay on the bridge, at the very end of light. So near, yet so far.

Purple clouds eclipsed the skies, and wet the grounds in droplets of pink. He reached up, covered his facade in saturation and smiled. He had surpassed the dawn of century...


Yet,


Another century awaits.