She lives outside the box. She sleeps under the stars that prickle with each and every dream and she wakes to the sun protruding her very skin. She streams against and with the rivers and she falls with the rain as it pitter-patters upon the town bathed in a wet blanket of tears. She sways with the wind as it shuffles past and she died with every plant that rots. She's the emblem of glow; the beam of every light.  She's the rhythm of movement; the beat of every heart. She's the echo of sound; the intensity and longing of every scream and whisper.

She lives outside the box. She's imaginative. She crossed her boundaries and went over the lines by inches and miles and millimeters that are nothing to her now. She goes the extra mile and when there are no more miles to run, she creates her own. She goes past the ordinary. She is the extraordinary.

She lives outside the box. As seasons change, and the clouds move past, and the leaves fall in a tender trace of movement, and time streams by and people die, she remain unchanged. She remains the same. Like she doesn’t exist; like a ghost that doesn’t age. Or so she thinks.

She lives outside the box. And people don’t know this but it’s cold out. And lonely. No blankets. No fur coats. No tents or sleeping bags. Just herself and her imagination. And for what can it be put to use other than trying to imagine you’re in a different world? Sad to say, the cold was killing her.

She lives outside the box. When she removed the ropes and the belts of the box she was confined in, the world was bigger and she was free to roam the depths and ups of the world she come to call a much beautiful version. But no matter where she looked, no matter how hard she looked, there was nobody else. Today is her 1003th day out in the cold, 1003th day of regret, 1003th day and she doesn’t think she can take another. She shivers with every feeling of remorse. She grows numb with every strike of pain. And to think that she could have easily opened the door when she could have, but she just had to be hard-headed. Bigger doesn’t mean better. Bigger means lonelier.

She lives outside the box. But all she honestly wants is to go back inside. She is miserable. She's a child with an old woman's scars, the gentlest romanticist hiding within a shell of hard cynicism. 


http://www.wattpad.com/114563075-complexities-02-pinned-butterfly

Love is not only blind, but a fool, a stumbling mess falling backwards through showroom doors into atmospheres unwelcoming of her presence. She is the unruly show-stopper, bringing the piano’s hook to an untimely end, groping in sultry salutation towards the nearest burlesque beauty, an untouchable object of obsession in the selfish eye of man, to which all occupants react with disapproving sneers and spiteful, sideways glances. They know better than to touch what they cannot have, but faced with such infatuation, she is but a child in a candy shop. 

Love is the fumbling mess who finds himself caught between a drop-dead-gorgeous match made in heaven, and a promise she made to her family, yet he seeks comfort in the concept of brief, brash contact, while Beauty seeks escape in the promises he makes under cover of dim moonlight and coffee-shop sound tracks; promises he would whole-heartedly keep if the situation called for such a thing... he wishes she knew.

Love seeks to prevail when common sense is lost beneath the faint aroma of warm mint in the air she exhales over his smile, and he struggles to come to terms with the fact that Rationality and Reason play larger roles in her life than he ever could.

Although her response is as seasonal as the green of the trees, he is content waiting for each and every Spring - the time spent alone in hiding - when they can forget the world and let butterflies multiply inside them, and let warmth spread throughout appendages to disregard a mid-winter’s bitter chill. 

Above all else, he will remain steadfast as trees do, through the harshest of Februarys as time is but a matter of context, where in his wasted heart will beat for her always.

Do you loves believe in guardian angels? It might sound weird or a little bit creepy even but I think I’m starting to believe that too. I think we all have someone watching over us. They know what we’re going through. They sense our emotions. I mean for all I know I might have someone watching me right now. Probably some handsome guardian angel watching on me as I type this. What am I even saying this? I've tried to ignore the repetitive signs but I just can't held it back right now. I need to vent it. It's been months and ever since the start of the year, the number 43 is constantly surrounding me and I wasn't sure how to take it. I didn't know if something bad was going to happen to me or what so I then told it to my friends. One morning my guy friend suddenly texted me and he send to me the meaning of angel no.43. While I'm reading the msg, there's this indescribable feeling that I can't even explain. Kakaibang comfort e. Since then, everyday ko ng nakikita ang number 43. Like today, sobrang lakas ng presence niya sa akin since morning pa. Every time I look at the clock laging may :43, everywhere I look may number 43. Yung duration ng mga songs na pinapakinggan ko ngayon laging may :43 din. So I surrender and just embrace the unknown. It's creepy yet amazing. I truly feel that God or an angel is guiding me and helping me seek my inner answers and guide me in this adverse situation. Does anyone see how this makes sense or can ever relate with me? I'm like in shock of everything but it truly is defining and solidifying my faith. Kapit lang kay Lord. :D 

(repost from wattpad site)