Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.

i'm never what i like.

"The horrors of the night melts away
Under the warm glow of survival of the day.
Then we move on,
My shadow grows taller, along with my fears,
And my frame shrinks smaller as night grows near."


A muffin is no different from a cupcake.
They are made the same way - the oven.
They taste the same inside - often sweet.
They are consumed the same way - eating.
They exit in the same way - the toilet.

What makes the muffin and the cupcake different?

The frosting? 
The decorations?

What is it so special about cupcakes that make muffins seem almost inferior?


"Let me read you a story"
She sat by her bed, waiting for him to sit next to her,
a huge story book in her hand,
eagerness in her eyes.

He fiddles with his toys, ignorant to what she had said,
almost as if she had whispered those words.
almost as if she did not say anything,
almost as if she wasn't there.

In her heart, she felt a little crushed.
She wanted to share her story with him.
Lying there on her own, she put the book aside.
Looking up at the ceiling, her mind floats away.

Initially, she wanted to join him with his toys.
But he would not appreciate it,
for he had his own methods and style of playing them,
and she would never have been able to be a part of it.

He fiddles with his toys, ignorant to her existence.
In his mind, he felt confused.
Should that toy car move this way, or reverse in that way?
Should he stop playing with his toys and get some rest?

After awhile, she gets up from the bed. 
She puts her mind aside.
She walks up to him and yanks his shoulder.
"I'm tired of sitting around."

After awhile, he gets up from the floor.
He leaves his toys aside.
He wasn't happy that she had to put things like that.
But deep down, he knew it was time for a break.

They went down for food.
He sneaked a toy in his pocket.
She wanted to enjoy herself.
But they sat at the table, lost in their own minds.

Unconsciously, he took out his toy.
She wouldn't know what that toy meant to him.
He played with it, trying to enjoy every minute of it.
He made it move back and forth, driving it in circles.

Unconsciously, she drifted off in her head again.
He wouldn't know what was going through her mind.
She thought about fires; playing with fire,
setting huge fires to burn down those thoughts.

When he was finally done playing with his toy,
he kept it away, and planned to keep it kept away.
He turned to her and asked her to read him to the story again,
but he could not seem to find the book.

Lying on the bed already, ready to be engaged in her thoughts again,
she couldn't find the book either.
It seemed as though she had forgotten about it.
She didn't want to read the book any more.

He was insistent on it,
he had neglected her earlier
when she wanted to read him the story.
Now he wanted to make up for it.

She was lost,
her thought bubble shattered,
her thoughts in a mess.
She couldn't find herself for that moment.

"Tell me that story."
He sat by the bed, waiting for her to share.
She was lost, confused, the book had seemed to disappear.
She had not expected that, but it just disappeared.

Impatiently, he waited.
He wanted to know about the story,
and the thoughts on her mind.
He got more impatient as time passed.

Worriedly, she hesitated.
She wanted to catch back her lost thoughts,
and find that story book.
She got more upset as time passed.

Eventually something snapped.

He was upset because she didn't want to tell him the story.
She was upset because she didn't know what to say.
His face turned into a frown, a scowl. 
But he couldn't see it.

The water works began.
She did not know where to begin.
She was helpless,
she was crushed.

Appalled, the scowl turned harsher.
The insisting became more insistent.
The stress to say something killed her insides.
She got more frightened, but she couldn't express it.

She would not have understood
how the toys were so important.
She would not have understood
how to play the toys like he did.
She would not have understood
how the toys should come first.
She would not have understood
how he'd comprehend her story.
She would not have understood
how the storybook disappeared.
She would not have understood
how she became so frightened.
She would not have understood
how it all had became like this.

And that was her side of the story. 


When the sun is climbing window sills,
And the silver lining rides the hills,
I will be saved for one whole day,
Until the sun makes the hills it's grave.



i'm double-sided and i just can't hide.
i kind of like it when i make you cry.
'cause i'm twisted up, i'm twisted up inside.


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