The Blue Van

The car was moving, she believed. The blue van drove through a non-existent road. There was no momentum. They never made turn. Had always been in a steady speed or not at all. She couldn’t see the road. The light outside was too bright for her to see. But she still believed the car was moving despite everything. The driver was the old man she knew really well. The dearest.

She sat at the passenger seat. Her tiny body leaned forward, arranging several coins on the dashboard. There was this small part in the middle where you can put small things like coins. Almost like a cup holder, but it was placed on top of the vents of air conditioner and heater. The blue van had that part to hold coins and candy. She was arranging the coins into a pile. The blue van moved too smooth. There were no tremors to poke the pile’s balance, but the doll in the center bobble its head comically as if the van driving through a bumpy road.

As she arranging the coin, she cried. She was listening to the story the old man telling her. What was it again? What kind of story he told her? She just kept wailing so hard. Tears blinding her vision. She could barely breathing between sobs.

“And then, what happened next?” she asked.

The old man, hands on the wheel, turned to her. He smiled. Eyes squinted from the genuine smile.

“They never meet each other again.”

She wailed even louder. Her heart clutched. The very first time she cried so hard it was painful.

The next thing she knew, everything disappeared one by one except her.

The light. The blue van. The coins. The bobble head doll. The old man. His smile.

She begged, “I don’t want to wake up.”

But she woke up anyway.


I am

I am a series of words
Hold no soul.
Grip on self.

I am a whirlwind of emotions.
Born from turbulence.
Hold no core.

I am a series of thoughts.
Where’s the escape?
Where’s the embrace?
Tell me.

I am a series of words.
Misinterpreted often.
Lose its value.
A history.

I am a gaping hole.
Heal me.

Not Even Halfway

Hey, I’m not even halfway there, yet the sky has started collapsing. The ground under my feet feels weird. It’s not even solid. I might get drown from not striding.

Hey, I’m not even halfway there, yet the road has been so hard to travel. The obstacles force my restraint to go unstable. Makes me longing for miracle. I might slip hard from not being intractable.

Hey, I’m not even halfway there, yet I’ve been thinking to stop walking. The struggles I preserve start missing. No longer hold meaning. I might disappear from crying.

The poor soul can’t travel with ease.

Traveling the bumpy road all alone under endless laugh and pity,

Toward the not-yet-exist future,

I drag my feet.

I risk it all.