good atlas

I’ve never been this alone.

Hours would pass without an inkling of a sound, but my world crumbles irrevocably in noise. It’s as if my thoughts precede me, and watching them stubbornly demand for headspace is numbing, and at times, distressing.

Thoughts dart from all directions, cajoling me and then leaving me to caress each gaping loss. A punitive dent will continue to linger until I’m ready to forget.

I admit, I am careless with my distractions, that I hurt myself more than I should.

But in those vicious moments are flecks of thought that would demand affection, and if I focus hard enough — usually with the aid of coffee– I’d extend my arms amid the clamour and carefully enclose each thought in my palm as if I’m holding something fragile. With a little more effort, caffeine and the perfect accompaniment song (Ryuichi Sakamoto’s Bibi no Aozora), I’d come to know them by name, by each intimate habit and predilection.

These thoughts usually appear when I’m immersed in the world– in both joy and sadness–  allowing it to overwhelm, so much so that the world itself takes me and my loneliness away. I’d stare at the trees, or at a stranger on the train, and a sort of magic travels up my spine.

In that very moment, I’d begin to write.