Friends are lovers and beloved in one. One is neither a beloved nor a lover; always a lover and beloved; happiness and grief shared and celebrated by people throbbing the same beat of the heart. Sisters and brothers not by blood, but by a union of body and soul entwined to the essence of their cores.

Maybe this is just my imagination playing tricks on me; but then again, maybe not.

humility has been a virtue I want to master above all … But stating one’s claim of worth is a start of asserting one’s identity.

I exist in words and ideas shown in every paragraph I make. This actually makes me happy.

Soon, a life shall pay for the death—of a virtue, of a body, of a trust, of a friend the young maiden once loved.

The little boy knows not that he has a father. He lives deep in the forest with the young woman he now calls sister. He has no friends but the forest animals. The sister leaves him with his creature friends when his sister is up hunting and looking for food for the two of them.

He has no father, he does not need one. There are no fathers in this story for they always leave their children, especially there sons as they journey towards the end of the world—as far as possible from their sons. They hate their sons. For their sons are their exact likenesses. Two people cannot live in the same place, much less in the same world. This is the fathers’ burden, then the sons’ after some time.

There are no mothers as well, for they die the exact time that the babies are born alive. This is the fate of the mothers; their lives depend on the existence of the newborn. But even though the babe is born dead, the mothers cannot live through this for they believe it is their duty to deliver the baby alive. Thus, they take their own lives for atonement.

Suspiciously though, the boy looks like the young woman in the deep forest. Nobody knows about this of course, no one lives in the forest except the two of them. Everyday, he looks more and more like the young woman and the lady takes notice. How could she not? The little boy was the son of her beloved, but he is not her son. Thus, it puzzles her that the child looks not like her father (though she wished he could have been) but of her self. This is the wish of her beloved—to be forgotten by the woman he came to love, thus his son will bear the appearance of the young woman.

Both the father and the son have no memory without the young woman in it. Could this be fate’s trick? This we will never know. All we can tell is that there is a little boy living deep in the forest, without a father or a mother, but with only a young woman he now calls sister.

Writing has always been a pleasure for me. It makes me exist; a proof that I am not just a figment of someone’s imagination or an endless dream. I exist in words and ideas shown in every paragraph I make. This actually makes me happy. Whatever emotion I have on times of my writing jaunts, I feel free. Freedom for me is happiness beyond compare—happiness without the pang of guilt, pure bliss of living together with the consequences of one’s actions.

There comes a point in a daughter’s life where she would have to hate what she thought was her palace, her refuge. For now, what she sees is a battle ground of bitter memories and an unexplainable depth of regret, sadness, anger, resentment. Every angle of that castle brings tears to her tired eyes and leaves a burning agony to her forever troubled spirit. She always thought that everything would be okay whenever she returns home. Ironically it only adds to her despair. Funny how time really changes everything. The paradise that you have been craving for all your life turns out to be the hell you’ve been running away from.

Being exhausted is an understatement. At this very moment, I would give up my memory to get out of this miserable time for in every memory lays a monster that continues to eat every drop of my mirth. I don’t want to remember anything from the past for it will always open wounds that would definitely snatch away my sanity.

The truth that I hold dear then is not the truth that I am seeing right now. And I don’t want to see my self getting trap with what can be said as an obsolete truth. Truth is something that I want to get away from.