Vineyard in My Backyard

Dear lonely isle,

Presently, I am a grape farmer.
It is a job that largely consists of tedious repetitions of duties and strict routines, largely along the lines of waking up at godly hours, procrastinating whenever possible and house chores, done whenever situation permits, which, fortunately does not happen often enough.

Then there is also the title of Garbage of Society to shoulder, and as titles go, with all the responsibilities to go with it. Thankfully, the title is not a cumbersome one, but the responsibilities of being society's Garbage can be daunting at times, requiring one to attempt to sleep till noon every day (weekends are a must, unfortunately) and attend to Facebook games immediately upon waking. Then there is also the matter of spending money and going out whenever possible, an article of faith to be followed to the letter.

However, as with any job, being a grape farmer can be hazardous to one's person. There is the constant ongoing danger of having to battle poor sleep and fats accumulating on one's self due to inactivity. Also, the chore of having to constantly file off the rust settling on one's limbs due to lack of use is getting to be vexing from tedious repetition. Being a grape farmer also requires one to possess a strong stomach to withstand the stench of brains slowly rotting as thought is seldom required throughout a day's work.

But it's all in a day's work for a grape farmer such as myself.

Harvest promises to be fun, I imagine.

love, Joyce.

Run

I'll sing it one last time for you
then we really have to go
you've been the only thing that's right
in all I've done

And I can barely look at you
but every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
away from here

Light up, light up
as if you have a choice
even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you, dear

Louder, louder
and we'll run for our lives
I can hardly speak, I understand
why you can't raise your voice to say

To think I might not see those eyes
makes it so hard not to cry
and as we say our long goodbyes
I nearly do

Light up, light up
as if you have a choice
even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you, dear

Louder, louder
and we'll run for our lives
I can hardly speak, I understand
why you can't raise your voice to say.

Run
Leona Lewis

GIMME

Dear Person Up There,

I know, deep down inside, you have some small, perhaps very very small, but still a spot in the soft pump-like organ you possess under your ribcage, for me.

I know this because, I am praying fervently that confidence can take the place of certainty.

So....GIMME!

I WANT!

MINEEEEEEEE~

Thanking you in advance.

Amen.

Joyce.

Blind

I was young
but I wasn’t naïve
I was helpless as you turned around to leave
And still I have the pain I had to carry
A past so deep, that even you could not bury if you tried

After all this time
I never thought we’d be here, I never thought we’d be here
When my love for you is blind
But I couldn’t make you see it, I couldn’t make you see it
That I loved you more than you’ll ever know
And part of me died
when I let you go

I would fall asleep
only in hopes of dreaming
That everything would be like it was before
But nights like this it seems are slowly fleeting
They disappear as reality is crashing through the floor

After all this time
I never thought be we’d here, I never thought we’d be here
When my love for you is blind
But I couldn’t make you see it, I couldn’t make you see it
That I loved you more than you’ll ever know
And part of me died
when I let you go

Blind
Lifehouse

Irrational

Dear lonely isle,

Sometimes we need to know when to let go.
This is me, without tear stains on my cheeks, and without the swollen puffy eyes.
This is me, without my mask, and without a smile.

These days, I find the more it hurts the wider I smile, and the louder I laugh.

You take the pain and put it into a box, then you put the box at the corner of your heart.
It numbs the feeling somewhat. Maybe one day when I do this I really won't feel anything anymore.

Then you cry because its the only thing you can do, and because you wished you could do something more.
Then you pull the covers over your head and sleep it off. Because someone said not to worry about things that you couldn't help.

Waking up is like trying to find your teeth in the dark after having them punched out the night before. You stumble for awhile as you try to figure out who you are, what are you doing, and why the hell can't you open your eyes properly.
When you've gotten down questions one and two, you find the answer for number three.
And while you're still in the interim state of not fully understanding anything, something in your subconscious picks up the box of pain in the corner of your heart and hides it somewhere out of sight.

Some days are too important to leave to the spoilt child running the operation tower.

And against all reason and logic, the day goes well. And you appreciate it that the big guy up there still seems to care.

Perhaps you do get time off for good behaviour.
But not today.

Sometimes we need to know when to let go.
But I usually find out too late.
It's not today. Maybe tomorrow.

love, Joyce.

Firestarter

Dear lonely isle,

Sometimes, when we feel really brave, we take out matches and play with fire.
Maybe we feel like we have something to prove, or just call it folly.

Maybe, sometimes just maybe, you have to ask yourself, do you want to get hurt that badly?

Children who play with matches get burned, children who play with stoves burn down the house.
Children who play with fire crackers lose an arm.

So, if we did want to hurt ourselves, why do we stop at matches?
Might as well take out the building while we're at it, and who needs two arms anyway?

Some people like to cut themselves just to watch themselves bleed.
But they are not to be confused with those who slit their wrists and go have a lie-down in the running tub.

So why?

When you've lighted all the matches in your hand, and are trying very carefully, to not burn your fingers, feeling perhaps a bit invincible, you often find you end up burning your skirt.
Which you then try to put out with your hands, and upon failing to do so, jumped into a pool of mud.
And at the end of the day....really, why did you put yourself through all that?

It hurt, didn't it?

Even when you expected it, it still hurts, somehow.
And like the foolish general in a losing war, you throw your remaining troops against the unstoppable tide of the opposing force, thinking it would somehow, when you got to the bottom of it, in a deep hole somewhere, it would matter.

But does it?

A little chicken once thought it was the end of the world.
But the sky never fell.
Possibly, long after it dies and even when its bones become bleached by the ground, the sky still wouldn't have fallen. Yet.

Sometimes, it feels like everything will somehow always be alright.
When in fact, it isn't alright.
Its only alright, because you've accepted what will be, and that...is alright for you.

Someday, when I die, they will write on my tombstone;

Here lies a person who did things just to be proven wrong,
for rest she could not, be satisfied she could not, till she was proven wrong.

Here she lies, for at last, she felt it was not possible that she was mortal,
and stood in front of a moving bus,
just to be proven wrong.

Incidentally, maybe she played with matches, thinking she couldn't get burned.

love, Joyce.

Yellow Shoes

Dear lonely isle,

This is a story about a girl who lived with her dog Toto on a farm in Kansas belonging to her aunt and her uncle. One day, a tornado came and lifted away the farmhouse, with the girl in it, and blew it to a faraway land. Upon arriving in the aforesaid faraway land, the girl realised that she was no longer in Kansas, when she discovered that the flying farmhouse had indeed landed upon a witch. The witch wore yellow shoes, upon which she took up and put them on.

But wait. Dorothy didn't wear yellow shoes, she had ruby slippers.
But wait. This girl was not Dorothy.

So she followed the advice of the good witch, and travelled along the yellow brick road, hoping to reach the fabled emerald city of Oz, at which, she was told, the all-great powerful wizard could send her home. Along the way, she met three girls, each of whom had also an unexpressed desire to call upon the famous wizard, in need of a brain, a heart and courage.

But wait. Dorothy met the scarecrow, the tin man and the cowardly lion on the way to Oz.
But again, this girl was not Dorothy. She was the girl with the yellow shoes.

So why did each of the three girls require something from the wizard? The first wanted to be rich, and needed a brain to think of how that specific position could be achieved. The second wanted to love someone, and for that, she felt she needed a heart. The third just wanted to be happy, and courage would help her to overcome the sad things in life, and put the sad memories behind her. The girl with the yellow shoes, she only wanted to go home.

So they set off together with the emerald city in sight. For what they wanted, there was no journey too far.

But a wicked witch was determined to not see them succeed. She littered their path with despair and sorrow, and forced them to gaze upon greed and suffering. But still, they preservered. After all, everything they wanted awaits in the emerald city. Scorning her efforts they thwarted her schemes, and she melted into a raging pool of boiling tar.

And so thus, they continued their journey.

Finally alas, the yellow brick road had come to and end, and just beyond the last line of bricks, were the shining, smooth, high walls of the emerald city. High and sheer as steep mountains. The last barrier to breach, the last test to pass, the last challenge to overcome.

And so they scaled the walls.

Awaiting their arrival, long before they had reached the walls, was the great wizard of Oz. He lived in the heart of Oz, preserving the city as a heart preserves the body. Surely, they thought, surely someone such as he has the answers to it all.

And indeed he had.

To the first girl, he said, No.
I cannot give you, what you already have. Your wit, your cunning, they are but what will carry you through life, and keep you alive. If you were but to use them more, they will surely bring wealth to your doorstep.
And she went away, realizing that what she needed was not a brain, but confidence. And his words spoke to her soul.

To the second girl, he said, No.
I cannot give you, what you already possess. Your love for your friends, for the people and things around you, they will form the purpose of your being. If you were but to use them more, they will surely bring passion to your life.
And she went away, like the first girl, realizing she erred in her ways, and lacked not a heart, but a will.

To the third girl, he said, No.
I cannot give you, what you could not possibly contain. The seed of power grows within your heart, and with each step you force yourself to take, you have put a smile on your own face. If you were but to try harder, surely you will find happiness had always been there.
And she too, went away, dawn in her heart that she required courage like she required a third foot, because she had had it all along.

To the girl with the yellow shoes, he said, Never.
I cannot send you back, when you have chosen to come. I cannot stray you from your path when you have set out on this journey, like I could not have sent you back to the past, and to times before. There are oft many times we would like to turn back, but alas, this is not within the powers of men. The most we could do, is to move forward, and maybe in time, forget where we have been. But the wisest never forget, indeed they may choose not to, because, while forward is the way to go, sometimes it is necessary to look back. In time, you may find that the way home, is right up ahead, but only if you keep walking. And sometimes, this is true, because you will make decisions to bring you back to where you came from, from whence your path first diverged.

And the girl with the yellow shoes wept. For she knew she could never go back.
And she wept, for a time lost, an age faded, a memory she could never relive.
And still she wept, as she struggles to lift her feet, with the yellow shoes that seemed to carry the weight of the world, for if she chose to move forward, she would leave everything behind.
And it would be the hardest thing she would have to do.

And still, she weeps.

love, Joyce.