My Love Proses

Prose 9: Home Within Home

A genteel flicker of the evening stars. A calm haze of the moonlight steam. A chic glow of the ambiguous sky lines and breathless constellations. A newfangled smell of books and aromatic white coffee. A limpid music of old 1900's Imelda lullaby from the music cassette. A tranquil bed and surreptitiously sweet diary below the nearby lampshade. A spring carousel souvenir beside the warm-faded canvas frame.

I listlessly stirred the coffee above my desk. I glanced at the topmost wall of my door to see where the arrows had landed in the clock. It was almost eleven in the evening and I have realized that my tummy became evidently turbulent. As I sighed and flashed out of my room with the strong impulse to grab some good food, I had contemplated enough how my parents left me without something to casually cook from the fridge.

Afterwards, my soles found its way to let my eyes watch the starry heaven under the cold windowpane. I beamed when I tried to think that I should have been brighter, more grandiose and elegant than the stardust in the wide galaxy. I should have been beautifully esoteric as compared to the horizon that watches how the onerous comet kisses the sea. I should have been more lissome enough to create a tangible masterpiece of stars on my own. My lips tried to discharge a slightly conspicuous beam even when it seemed off and absurd contemptibility was intensively evident. 



I flexed my arms and hurled one last time before I began to traipse back towards the desk and scribble another argumentative missive in my online blog site. Writing countless masterpieces has been my mediocre routine ever since I was in my high school premature years and I have always admired to be intersected with this form of passion. It almost felt like I was just placidly dwelling on my favorite place, springing free in the crystal blue skies and serenely resting in an autumnal boulevard.



This passion has been the consequential premonition of my existence and it victoriously led me to where I was supposed to be as I had profoundly foresee where my soul was meant to go and where it was destined to stop over. For instance, weaving distinct proses, irregular odes, diatribes and poetries continually emboldens my collateral esteem to pursue the goals that I had interminably dreamed about. Some may reflect that this figure of art is archaic, boorish and wilfully insane, however, I have never thought about it as a hardbound impedance to my present circumstance in life.


I once willingly grappled in the facileness of writing, thus, annihilating myself from what has been believed to be necessary could admittedly deconstruct my path into something that I may eternally regret in the end. Even until these chaotic and flickering days, the art of surrealistic writing serves as my threshold in reconnecting back to what I had left and lost in the same place where I was finally found.

My senses trailed off instantly when my phone beeped in the nearby closet. Due to balmy adrenaline, I had accidentally thumped the purple dahlia vase beside my desk which caused endurable vibratory sound inside the room. I just simply shrugged and apparently reached my phone that has a ringtone of Billie Eilish's Come Out and Play music. I tapped the home button and leisurely released a meek smile as I witnessed the displayed photograph on my alarm screen. It was an image of a monochromatic book with concise Italic emblem on the lower description.

I heedfully caressed the screen with my fingertips and held it closer on my palms as synchronous rays of memories started to gush out beyond my wildest expectancy. The history of fleeting euphoria and fulfillments, the succeeding events of answered wishes and blessings, the phases of dismay and agitations and the conventional occurrences of what-ifs, come what mays and what-could-have-been regrets were those memories that have been long missed and mourned through time. Nonetheless, when I had obtained the chance to permissively fathom and randomly reflect about my past misadventures, I was never aware of how innocent tears curtly streamed down on my cheeks and how my room was devoured with silent outburst of grievance.