9:46 PM – Hands

“Sometimes, we imagined ourselves holding the hand of the person we love, but in reality, they hold the hands that are warmer than ours.”



NOTE: The long, doozy title of this short story is called “The Parable of the Painter Who Never Paints” And it’s actually a parable, there’s definitely a hidden message in this.

Plus, I was inspired by my own poem called “The Untold Tale of the Painter Who Never Paints From the Optimist’s Perspective.

Nevertheless, I wrote this story for our English class’ project and we were tackling a topic about parables, fascinating.

Didn’t get a perfect score, but I’m totally alright with it.

  There was a painter who never paints. He always proclaimed his artistic values, even though, he is reluctant to paint a single being. Every time he sees a blank canvas, it burdens him as it reflects on him and his inability to paint. As a composed person, he accepts his own incompetence as he held his paintbrush closely to his heart- his opportunity shall be worth the wait. 

  The painter attended a masquerade wherein he recluse himself from the crowd. While he enjoys the solitary output of his life, someone unexpectedly interferes with his solitude; startling him. 

  “You must be a painter! Please do paint a portrait of me,” said the sophisticated vagabond.

  The painter’s eyes were wide with disbelief, he almost forgot about the fact that he is a painter. (Well, sort of.) Then, he sighed and explain his inabilities, sincerely.

  The sophisticated vagabond pats his back and philosophically enunciate the certain aspects of life. He also states his adventures and his great achievements with many stories fit for a king, despite being a homeless person, he considered himself a wanderer of freedom.

  After hearing the life story of the vagabond, the painter was crestfallen and became insecure. The vagabond felt a pinch of remorse as he noticed him. He, then, encourages the painter that he would one day be the greatest painter who ever lived.

  All that inspirational talk was overheard by the lady with the top hat, she suddenly became infatuated by the vagabond. Her oblivious-self started to arise- coming to the days of being naive with romantic pleasures. 

  When the vagabond and the painter went to their separate paths after a great colloquy, the lady appeared in front of him, take his hands and dragged him in the middle of the masquerade dance. He was in a state of confusion at first, but he decided to play along. The vagabond and the lady- a trusting pair of strong bodies, lacking in worries, performing “Pas de Deux.” 

  When their eyes met each other, her heart was racing and she was prepared to kiss him. However, a thought from the back of her mind was preventing her from doing it as she realized how oblivious she was with her purity. The lady quickly apologized to the vagabond who chuckled and compliment her dancing skills.

  Out of the eyes, there was a misanthrope who has been observing the two and mumbles to herself about how she despised them due to their childish acts that represent humanity and the insufferable ignoramus.

  After the lady and the vagabond waved farewell to one another, the lady noticed the misanthrope and approached her as she was seemingly lonely in the crowd. Suddenly, the lady grabbed the misanthrope’s hands and danced around the room.

  The misanthrope thought that it was an unpleasant thing to do, but as they kept on dancing, she found herself enjoying the music and following the rhythm which the hate could ever eradicate, but she chose not to expose such hatred.


  When the misanthrope went out to get some fresh air, she felt someone rumbling through her purse, when she turned her head, it was a gentleman.

  The gentleman tipped his top hat, “My apologies, m’lady.”

  She has an intuition that he is obviously trying to steal her money. Instead of aggressively exposing her loathe like she would often do to mortals, she generously gives the money that he was trying to snatch. The gentleman gave her an odd look as she walks away.

  “What a magnanimous human being,” the gentleman mumbles to himself as he counts the money.

  To his surprise, she gave him more than what he expected to have. With his extra money, he felt the urge to be benevolent to others in order to get rid of the guilt that has been stuck in him for almost eternity.

  As he walks along the footpath, his attention was caught by the girl who doesn’t have enough expenses to buy her meal. Looking at his money, he walk towards her and gave her the money. The famished vigorous girl was surprised and thanked him repeatedly.

  “It was my pleasure,” said the gentleman as he leaves.

  The famished girl bought her meal with a refreshment and she sat on a bench while she ravenously eats her food. Although she is seemingly healthy, her stomach was hungry while her mind wanders off thinking about the endless possibilities of having unlimited food.

  Then, a man with one and a half leg(s) came and sat beside her as the two watched the runners sticking to one another, running as if they are completing a marathon. The girl looked at the crippled man, he was wearing a running attire. 

  With curiosity, she asked, “Why aren’t you running with them?”

   The crippled man showed his leg(s), “Well, isn’t it obvious? Plus, I would rather sit here than run with those fools, I need to relax.”

  “You certainly are missing an opportunity, here take this,” the girl handed him a refreshment as she left him alone- thinking that he would reflect on his ne’er-do-well self.

  The crippled man drank his refreshment and stand on his two feet, he realised that an achievement would come at the other side if he would take a step. He began running funnily. Then, passersby saw him and began cheering and chanting. The crippled man felt the wind of courage as he break into a sprint. There were people clapping and putting their fists into the air in delight. Except for one, the painter who never paints. Seeing the crippled runner reminds him of a blank canvas and his insecurities came back to break him. He wishes he was as industrious as the crippled runner who sets as an image of someone who would never give up.

  Feeling hopeless, he wanders off and began reflecting. He realizes that if he were to paint the world, the universe, and the people- a blank canvas would be the only thing existing, his reluctancy does not make him self-absorbed and he knew, personally, he can’t paint. He’ll still call himself a painter, though, even if the people mocked or bashed him. Surely, he is not an arrogant one, he is not selfish and neither is he a hypocrite. 

  Because he too was never painted picture perfect.



When the door shuts behind you,

your curiosity grew louder

and what surrounds you,

don’t matter to you anymore.

but that lovely girl,

standing near the door

is the only single being

you ever cared the most.

and the door that kept shutting,

shall never be your fiend,

it knows your limitations

and what you must not know

in order for you to keep intact,

you leave the girl to be-

as lovely as she can be

is what you can only see.




i’m soft-spoken and i have a voice not fit for a king
with tons of responsibilities, that required speaking.
definitely, no one would hear me if i made a speech
and the public would suddenly deceive me
and i would be responsible for my own deficiency.
i’m soft-spoken and someone told me
i have a voice of a tiny cockroach;
when you step on me, it’s like i don’t bother.
honestly, not the best insect to describe me.
i could be a bee, people would surely believe
because i often buzz around their ears,
they won’t swat, they’ll just leave me to be.
i’m soft-spoken and the teachers that met me
often asked me to speak louder
whenever i am presenting to the others
all around me,
like the air that is surrounding me
because i am losing most of my breath,
the ears of the people,
and my courage too.
i’m soft-spoken and i have to repeat myself
more than twice, probably thrice
in order for them to hear me right,
i cannot even function well in loud areas
where i have to speak louder
like the little boy who cried, “wolf!”
and then, no one will come running for him.
i’m soft-spoken and i ought to be a humble mumbler
i don’t expect anyone to imagine me scream
or maybe everyone would ever think it’s uncanny
for someone, so gentle, to yell to their limits.
many would think it’s ironic
or a story from a fairytale.
surely it’s not impossible,
it’s just improbable at the moment.
i’m soft-spoken and when my voice sounded gentle,
that doesn’t mean i’m a fragile teacup
when you break it, i would shatter to tiny pieces,
and when you step on the sharp parts,
you’ll hurt yourself like how you hurt me.
and no, it’s not the work of karma.
you probably felt a pinch of pity,
even though, i’m the most wanted criminal
my face is nothing but an innocent being.
i’m soft-spoken and people think i’m scared
if i became a champion, i wouldn’t be there
to get my trophy, they will think i have stage fright,
and my valedictory would sound like an obituary
for me, when my name would be destined to the grave
of cringing moments when i could have fought back
or pretend that i don’t even bothered getting the prize
because there is no thrill for my pride
or maybe i’m truly am scared
or my voice is beginning to tear.
i’m soft-spoken and i want to let you know
that it took every ounce of courage
to spat out a phrase for you
as loudly as i can be
all the way up until my out-of-oxygen meter
will hit to the very top.
i know, personally, that i am not physically loud
neither do i considered myself dreary,
take a look inside of my mind,
it’s louder than my voice.
i’m aware that if i speak,
my speech would slip and blent in with the other sounds
and i’ll be another white noise in the room
of people who could never stop talking.

i’m soft-spoken and you may think i have nothing to say
when my voice is hiding at the back of my mind
waiting to come out on pleasant days.
i’m soft-spoken and you may think i’m boring
with all the murmuring of a little mouse
waiting to be attacked by the ferocious cat.
i’m soft-spoken and when i don’t speak
it does not necessarily mean that i’m on a bad day
i’m just waiting for you to initiate
when my mind is busy wandering in outer space.
i’m soft-spoken and me being magnanimous
should not be seen for my weakness,
i may not tell you about it
because i do not wish to interfere with that topic.

i’m soft-spoken and yes, it’s shocking to see
what a person could write
more than what she could have said
in a normal verbalised colloquy.

i am soft-spoken and no,
i am not weak.


I Hate Empathy

What is this feeling
I’m always longing for,
like a tramp who is starving
for the everyday meals
he never had before.
Like a child who wishes
to meet his beloved mother
who didn’t make it
at the time, he was born.
A strange desire,
hard to disregard.
A strange sense
for longing to not feel alone
in this world
for those who are misunderstood;
for those who crave
something more than sympathy,
a treasure that is worthy,
but you can’t hold it for long.
People would pat your back
and assure you that it’s okay.
I say it’s never alright
and will not be until that someone
would come save me from the tower
that I isolated myself in,
only those who asked
to let my hair down
knows how heavy they are,
but they continue to climb
to the point where they reach
the very top of my confinement
because they knew it


The Untold Tale of the Painter Who Never Paints from the Optimist’s Perspective

if this youth were to paint a maiden, picture perfect,
he too would be revolved around the sun.
presumably, selfish; self-absorbed-
and that’s what I ought,
but he hesitates to touch the paintbrush
and honestly never painted anything or anyone,
even him, himself, and his reflection in the mirror.
supposedly, he ain’t selfish, self-absorbed,
nor a hypocrite.
yet he proclaimed the fact that he is a painter,
even though he is reluctant to paint a person.
he ain’t arrogant too, he’s just scared.
terrified to be the unworthy one.
then, why he is considered to be a painter
if he can’t paint a single object or a face.
he can actually paint!
the problem is he has never tried doing so.
if he were to paint the world, the universe, and the people-
a blank canvas would be the only thing existing,
but the picture can only stay still,
while the thoughts that formed a ring
spun uncontrollably; surrounding his mind
not to burden him, nor making him a ne’er-do-well.
he’ll still call himself a painter,
even if you mocked or bashed him.
surely, he is not an arrogant one, I promised,
he is not a hypocrite, I swear.
he too, was never painted picture perfect.


I Bothered, Brother

During the dark hours,
you were mentally entangled;
living in the state of being devoured
by the miserable thoughts
in your miserable life.

As a person who cares, a trusty old friend
is surely what you need,
I’ll reach for your hand
if only you’d forgiven me,
and had forgotten your woes.

Don’t let me down,
don’t go beyond the line.
Although I’m rarely around,
don’t even cut the line
where your heart first throbs.

As a person who cares, I’ll take
the sharpest lives away.
Even your smile is all fake,
I don’t expect a foul play,
don’t make it hard for me to stay.

Filling yourself with silence
won’t prevent me from asking
if you are doing anything violent
to your own self, your own life.
We made a promise, please don’t lie.

As a person who cares, empathy
is something you will certainly have.
I’ll talk on and on, breathlessly.
I’ll give you my pair of ears
if you will open up your fears.

You, dangling from the top,
I personally knew it was too late,
all your harms suddenly stop,
I knew I haven’t said
that I am desperate for you to stay,

As a person who cares, I’ll put
flowers on your grave,
I’ll even step foot,
visit and write your name
Every single day.


All’s Well That Ends Well.

Success- a simple word that has been overlooked by society; a word most vagabonds wouldn’t be able to perceive, let alone the definition that is utterly incomprehensive in the depths of their minds. Today’s generation contemplated differently, they ought the word “Success” is commonly associated to being sophisticated or manipulative. Basically, empowering themselves with wealth- only to be considered spoiled in the end. On the other hand, sanctimonious beings may visualize success in an inconceivable way. It’s certainly not wrong to imagine success profoundly than what we can manage. Supposedly, it would be much more preferred if we start with the elementary deeds rather than exposing ourselves with something big and impossible- unwillingly eradicating our fulfilments. Therefore, we cannot expect ourselves to dominate this planet if we haven’t had a fundamental base for our simple acts of success.

Generosity is one way we can further our step into success, we need to plan out a probable idea. Think about the families living in a marginalized province- helping them by providing a much more convenient property and giving them enough money may sound like a big successful impact to the welfare of the people. However, all isn’t well. High expectations are like propagandas, ruining the definition of success, and the idea of generosity at the same time. You can’t anticipate the marginalized families to move to a new property with a better economy, it’s like forcing them to leave their comfortable homes and getting used to the new environment can be a burden to them. To start off simply, giving money to a particular charity is already the beginning. Then, proceeding to create a simple charity organization could be a foundation of your progress, ensuring that the earnings would be given to the marginalized people. In addition, to give an endorsement to them, we could create a notice to give awareness to the public. Whether it’s selling unwanted items or ensuring the oblivious people to be aware of those who are alienated, our efforts can determine our compassion for the well-being of the marginalized people.

Presumably, as we continue to slowly increase our support for them, the definition of success would be more tolerable. As we commit to a much smaller and simple step, it would be manageable for us. Our kindness would collaborate with our thoughts. Providing the less fortunate with our constant support. Although the act of generosity is commonly associated among certain people, the idea of benevolence cannot be both a weakness nor a strength at the same time.



✓ The Perks of being a Wallflower

the-perks-of-being-a-wallflower copy



The Book’s Information
Title: The Perks of being a Wallflower
Author: Stephan Chbosky
Genre: Fiction, Young-adult fiction, Epistolary novel
Published: February 1, 1999 (Originally)
Adaptations: The Perks of being a Wallflower (2012)


Synopsis (From Goodreads)
Charlie is a freshman. And while he’s not the biggest geek in the school, he is by no means popular. Shy, introspective, intelligent beyond his years yet socially awkward, he is a wallflower, caught between trying to live his life and trying to run from it. Charlie is attempting to navigate his way through uncharted territory: the world of first dates and mix tapes, family dramas and new friends; the world of sex, drugs, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show, when all one requires is that perfect song on that perfect drive to feel infinite. But he can’t stay on the sideline forever. Standing on the fringes of life offers a unique perspective. But there comes a time to see what it looks like from the dance floor.

My Thoughts
And it all starts with “Dear Friend,”

Personally, this book gives a nostalgic sentiment that I cannot avoid, reading this felt like my whole world is in that book, and I am the one writing just to express my own feelings. That’s basically how I felt throughout the story. Nevertheless, I deeply admire this book and it is also considered to be my all-time favourite. Although this book is in a letter format and the writing is simple, the idea of Charlie’s perspective is quite complex, emotional and dark which may give the readers’ the feeling of melancholy. In addition, the parts of the content are erotic as Charlie is discovering and involving himself to some “testosterone moments,” those doesn’t really bother me as it puts a sense of realism of a typical teenage boy or should I say, atypical teenage boy? But overall, what enthralled me is his life as a wallflower which is something I could relate to, he provides that sentiment of being understood and won’t feel alone in this world and beyond.

Will I recommend this book? Of course! If you ought to be a wallflower; a misfit or even a demure person, this book may give you the right empathy. Even if you’re not what I’ve mentioned, it may give an engrossing moment for you to cherish.

Ratings: Five out of five stars!

Flip the Page

He flipped through the pages
Of his new book, that has a ton of pictures in it
And it contains simple words- a little amount of it.
For every word he read wrongly,
His father would kiss him in the forehead
And his mother would teach him the words.
Then, the teacher in his kindergarten class
would give him a butterfly sticker and a thumbs-up
Because he wrote a simple story
That he copied from the book with pictures on it.

He flipped through the pages
Of his new book, that has a ripped page in it.
His father said that it was his favourite book,
But he complained that there were no pictures.
Yet, his father kisses him in the forehead
And understand that he was young and naive.
And his teacher gave him a shiny gold star
Because he wrote a poem entitled, “Pictures.”
His mother put it in a picture frame and hugged her son.
While the father went out with a lot of money.

He flipped through the pages
Of his new thick book with no pictures at all.
He heard a lot of screaming and shouting
From the other room.
When his father came out,
He complained that the book was too violent.
His father scolded him and threw the book across the room.
Then, his substitute teacher wrote a remark
At the back of his paper
In his poem entitled, “Malice.”
Stating that it was too vicious.
He didn’t show it to neither his mother nor father.
So, he hung it in his wall with the other poems he wrote.

He flipped through the pages
Of a newspaper because he doesn’t have any books left.
He decided to write a story for him to read
As he does not want to bother his father
Who was snoring loudly while holding onto a bottle.
His teacher never gave him a score
Because she slept soundly at her desk thrice.
The students chuckled and continue their works.
His mother picked him up from school
And in their car, it has a strong smell of cologne,
But his mother only wears perfume
And his father never drives the car because he doesn’t know how.
He ignored the smell and showed the story to his mother
Who ended up crying so hard after reading.
He was confused as he wrote a funny story.

He flipped through the pages
Of an old book that he constantly repeat.
He asked his father to buy him a book.
His father nodded and head out.
When he came back, the father gave him a library book.
He was upset, yet, he read it anyway.
Then, he wrote a poem called, “Farewell.”
Whom he gave it to his teacher
Who was carrying a box of her belongings.
The teacher never gave him a perfect score,
So when he went home, he gave himself a star.
That was the time, she join his father
And they both drink while singing the blues.
His mother cried a lot that her make-up was ruined.
He threw her revealing clothes to the laundry basket
And hugged her son with the smell of cologne in her.

He flipped through the pages
Of his library book, that was from the previous day.
His mother gave him some money that she earned.
Even though, she doesn’t have a job.
His father went home unexpectedly,
With a smell of perfume that his teacher always wear.
His mother and father would never kiss each other
His father asked his son to hand him the money
So that he could buy him a new book that he wanted.
The one with dragons and knights fighting one another,
But he didn’t.
He wrote a poem called, “In the Dark Room.”
His new teacher gave him a bad score
Because it wasn’t related to the topic
That was assigned to him.

He flipped through the last page
Of his library book, that has a devastating ending.
He gave the book to his father who looked sophisticated
And asked him to return the book to the library.
He nodded and continue grabbing his belongings.
His mother put the clothes in a suitcase,
This time, she never cried at all.
His father carried the suitcase and head outside
With the library book in his other hand.
He stared at his father as he took a cab,
This time, he didn’t think
His father would ever return.

He flipped through the pages
Of his new book, that has a ton of pictures in it
And it contains simple words- a little amount of it.
He read every word correctly,
But his mother didn’t kiss his forehead
Because those were the only books she could buy.
Then, the teacher in his senior class
Scolded him for being a ne’er-do-well
Because he wrote a simple story
That he copied from the book with pictures on it.