He constructed fiction that became a facade for his inner turmoil.
from readers' perspectives, they see my postings
as something of life's awareness and awakenings,
that the strength of words used
scaffolds the meanings of one's existence,
of volatility, of exuberance, of sheer joy.
from people who clicked without leaving
any footprints at its doorsteps, their mere presence
juxtaposed the willingness to get in
but with reservations or apprehensions, that such readings
could possibly be intimidating in meaning or trapped in boring compositions.
from those who seems to care, whether they leave a mark or unconsciously
render their presence, their understanding of the metaphorical insinuations
and thoughts clouded by a collage of photographs may do an
impression of my well-being at the moment, my whereabouts,
and my line of thoughts.
my stories are webbed in truth, pursuits and actions,
that some dreams had been halted by pressing circumstances,
that some notes were fogged by convolution of words as
to hide their truthfulness, that some were not embellished by extravagance
but by experiences through the passing of time.
i fill in an empty can of life with stories to share,
that some might learn, that others may recognize
as opportunities for reflections,
that one may decipher the true value of my words,
that of an inner turmoil throughout.
it's an ongoing saga of downfalls and unsuccessful leadings,
of sadness covered in honey, of loneliness trapped,
that of smiles and joyful words enveloped in mist,
in smoke, in heavy air of chaos, where the face is bright
and the departure time drawing nigh.
