Thoughts on Writing

At times it is incomprehensible how beautiful lines are produced under the most horrible circumstances. How the mind is able to translate the pain into images. How it can be endured to pen down, chisel to forever that which is excruciating.

It is fascinating. Perhaps it is like birthing. The pain to bring to life something that not everyone can or may understand. It is not as though all works are intentionally left undecipherable, but it all adheres to the thought of to each his own, and that existence is through how one is perceived.

It can be cruel at times, murderous even. Sartre said that hell is other people, but the rule of dualism also suggest that it can also be heaven. And like people, the words, the images, can be a society's truth, but another person's lie, relative to the perception.

Yes, relative. At one point there is the bliss of seeing, hearing the water gush out of every alliteration, consonance, or assonance; of feeling the roughness of stones under the water or the pressure as it falls from great height. At one point there is the languor of fresh leaves bathed in morning dews, or perhaps the scent of blooming flowers just across the banks.

This, we say is lovely. This, we say is poetry that brings life. We enjoy it, bag it in our minds and seal it there, because it is golden. After this point is a blur.

The same golden memory, this time even with the sight of gliding birds over cerulean sky, may become the bejeweled dagger. As much as the sound of water falling from above indicates life, it can break our bones. The rocks underwater can be slippery pathways to doom.

Yes it may, because it may have been drawn from the outlines of sorrow, that exact moment when the mother weeps bittersweet tears.

The question, however, is that when do we perceive these wonders as such? Fear. What procures you if instead of embracing what is, you ignore it and contemplate on what it may be?

It is just as well in childbirth. There may not be an intention to prove or probe through the infant delivered. There may not be a profound motive to be seen. The mother brings forth the child nonetheless, hoping it shall be perceived in a way that it shall not offend a person's fear or commend another's full resignation.

The mother hopes to experience it as it is. Without expectations, without fear, just its sheer sensuality, her attempt of transference of that sorrowful self to the world.

3:46 am
Revised 4:14

Over Dinner

Mother warned me,
"He will eat you up."
Really, he didn't.

I wished

10/1/13
In between an
extremely busy sched

Denial

On your head,
You have horns
I keep clipping.
And at night
I plant
seeds on your back.
Praying for them
to sprout
wings
by dawn.

7/1/2013
while walking from the grocery