Onsra: A novel

Prologue

My love is for eternity,

I'd written a ballad for you

About frostbites, and tickles.

Rhymes of dandelee,

And boreeeyo

That are nonsense

But still matters

And heartbeats'

Cries of lament.

I scratched out the poem. It is a trash, and I'm a waste. Tomorrow, maybe I'd stop writing, may be not. But all I need to do, is forget what the heart remembers…T

That's the sole thing that matters to me now.

Writing has been that thin thread I've been holding in order to survive, to leave the cliff I've been hanging for awhile, from all the remorseful events of the past that flashes by so fast that of a light's. Writing is breathing; to write, is to live. It does not only cast all my dreams of rainbows, jasmines, rubies and golds into a thread of words—it has also took shape of who I am inside, with all the traumas and anxieties and pain.

I can still remember how a lonely girl I was considered to be by many, a long time ago, and ever since, I had learned reading novels in an early age. It was when writing, had just been a daydream by a dreamer full of nightmares, soaked in the droplets of darkness. It was the time when reading saved me from my never ending drowns in a stormy sea; in turn, as how books saved me, I want to save someone else's, and myself in the process.

"Saxia!" Raela said in a high pitched voice, that for others could be considered as shouting, (for her, it's normal) pronouncing my name with emphasis 'Suk-see-yuh'. The safe haven ambiance the place offered, suddenly dissolved into mist, the people who are frequent in here has also realized that, with the girl who sauntered from the glass door towards my table that is facing the glass and the picturesque widened road, that most avoid from the scorching heat.

"Oh C'mon, I've been calling you for how many times that I lost count, but you're still idling!" She is standing haughtily like the owner of the world in a red top, and green plaid skirts that match her eyes and her heels (she sure as hell looks going to a Christmas Party in the middle of June)

—both hands on her waist, in front of me and of the people she just disturbed in this green and white and glass, four cornered wall of the café where I'm in—my go to café.

The discarded and crumpled papers lay dead on my brown varnished, wooden table, waiting to be revived by the writer who just gave the words up from being alive; the pen in point black, lay still and near to its death—the ink's level nearly on the tip and on the brink of drought.

Raela then scowls from the dead stare I have given her as my mere reply after her outburst of frustration, when suddenly, her eyes softens—as if clouds have come down upon her, that turn wide eyed from shock, as I stand up and walk away with no further adieu, not even for the baristas that I frequently greet.

I smiled to myself when I'm on the street side, and left the cursed Raela in that once blessed but now cursed café with her inside it. Why was she in my table anyway? What I'm yearning, is a security to be locked in the arms of peace and reassurance, not in the loudness she's creating that makes me go crazy.

In this journey that I'm stepping over, I let my feet take me wherever they want to. To let them feel the exhaustion as how my heart feels the same, and as how my soul wants to rest from everything. My vision is in  a blur from the pace my feet is on, as if the time just moved in a fast forward spin. I was nearly running, barely noticing the busy street, the sea of people, and the abandoned park. In normal days, I could have stopped and stared at how people hide their smiles in a memory that out of the blue they remember, how they use their phones and considers it their world—only to be detached by the real one and the important people inside it; I could have written a poem about how people surround each and one of them and yet still feel lonely.

I hate people. I hate how they took pity over how I'm coping myself with the tragedy. I just want to be alone; to never feel anything at all. Sure, writing eases some part of it, but never its whole. Ah, how wholesome could pain be for a person like me, only to be left with shards and pieces, as the only remains of my identity; The person that I once was, unidentified and reshaped.

My feet led me on my house's gate. Our house. It looks gloomy to wherever angle a person may stand. It looks different from the memory that I have with him, and it even feel different knowing that I live here now, alone—without him in it, without the booming laughter, and the slippers left in the entrance mat; and my body feels different, my ribcage still existing, but my heart has left its home hollow; shout directly at my ear, it won't hurt and it won't cause harm on me, and your voice will surely echo from the void inside me.

Oh how could memories be the product of these eye waterfalls? I thought it is just ghosts who haunt, but why does the memory of him just did that in broad daylight? I should be scared, to be haunted by him this way, but instead, he makes me feel of how a lonely person I am. He was all I had, the home that no one could ever give but him; his arms were my hearth and blanket in a December night. And now, without him, all season my entire year and the year that will  follow after, will surely be cold and freezing, no matter how hot the summers could be.