"One day, I wrote a long letter to the moon"

My tears fell again today. A tad bit warmer, but undoubtedly much more rawer. I pulled my pillow closer to my chest — almost suffocating but my shaky hands gripped it even tighter. I closed my eyes shut, hoping the pain would dissipate into air, becoming one with the pitch black sight. Or so I thought.

"Why are you crying, you and I are the only ones here"

Another day went by with you and I shouting at each other at the top of our lungs; like two volcanoes waiting for their cue to erupt — the tenses and snickers from the previous days were magma that was rapidly pushed to the surface, needing just a little bit more push to upsurge. The raise of my voice was an act of defence mechanism, but you took it as rebellion. The tears that ran down my cheeks were the indictment of your false accusations, but you took it as a frail act of weakness. Once again, I can never win.

"The sun suffocates me, and the world strips me naked"

There are countless of things that I love about nighttime. The serenity that rose from the darkness, the sound of the wind breezing through the tall trees, sending shivers to my bare skin but I greet them with a smile. The skies look clear and graceful, welcoming the creatures underneath with their friendly murkiness. Wiping the tears stain from my cheeks, I peek through the window pane to gaze at the skies before pushing the windows wide open, giving permission for the wind to lightly breeze my face with its cold. My thoughts seem to be more organised as I stare into the darkness — if my mind went berserk in the day, the nighttime is when I regain my rationality; where I turn my rage to words of melancholy. If the daytime is when I curse my circumstances, nighttime is when I give myself a pat on the shoulder, consoling myself that I've worked hard to swallow the bitter pill that is the day.

"I collect myself that's shattered beneath the moonlight"

As I pipe my tears dry, I get reminded of how painful it is to realise I'm merely a speck of dust that could be swept into nothingness — the only thing keeping me at ground was how good I hid myself in the room so spacious before I flail. My idea of romance has always been the midnight train, or night dawdle in a huge park as I carry a pen and my notebook, jotting down the beauty of the same place I never have seemed to register contrary to when it was bright. The image in my head was undeviating — me taking a seat on an old, broken bench while I turn a new page of my notebook, inhaling the cold air. I began to write and funnily enough, I always start with the positive occurrences when the event that brought me to the spot I was currently at was the maniacal day but with the company of the night, I began to remember more of what kept me alive than the things that swept me off of my feet. I still scrawl them down, only a little less than what I initially plan.

"And when the moon falls asleep, the blue shade that stayed with me disappears."

However, as the night passes and the morning sun greets me yet again with its brightness, I keep wishing to go back to the calamity of the night and back to the park I had my dawdle — where I wrote the events, only to remind myself of the things that kept me alive because, as the morning sun greets me yet again, I only remember more of the things that swept me off my feet.