So... Humans distort their reality by making decisions supposedly right. After some time, however, what seemed right becomes murkier than what was considered the most horrific choice (or perhaps i am merely exaggerating. Nevertheless, it was inconsiderable at that moment in time.). Thus, man becomes regretful, resentful of what they have with no one to blame but themselves. A sad fact indeed.
When a man said that it is but human to err, he actually defined what makes humanity a sad existence. One, because man is "supposedly" innately rational. Thus, any action beyond this nature becomes a wrong. Given the former nature, an explosive contradiction occurs, and man is doomed to feel the consequence of it both externally and internally. This is because of a third nature that, from my perspective, is what separates humans from objects, what humanizes man. The third nature, which is to feel, is what leaves humans utterly devastated.
Man feels the goodness or the corruption of all his decisions. More than the physical consequences, humans are bombarded with psychological effects that they cannot even define, despite all attempts. The worst part is, the human rationality cannot even posit an answer for this.
Thus, when a man said, "it is but human to err," can it not be said that the social declaration that man should be rational and moral at all times is one of those numerous errors?
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Stars
That moment when you feel like everything is happening soon, when in fact, they are not. You just have this insane excitement, and inexplicable exhiliration, to which you do not have an explanation. Perhaps there really is going to be something, and in your heart of hearts you hope it is that one wish you have been praying for. You look up to heaven, both in fear and anticipation.
Then again, you realize, there are countless stars, just like how there are countless people. You wonder how many of them think the way you do, and feel similarly. You see that in the darkness of the night, the stars shine, but their brightness are never similar. One is bound to glitter more and be seen even through the humblest of telescopes. You realize that maybe the excitement is a mask to cover the incoming disappointment. You may not actually be gifted the desire of your heart and you are just bound to struggle against all the other stars' light. You push through the darkness. Perhaps this is why you have that adrenaline rush. It is the fire to give off light.
You are a star fighting to be noticed. You are a star waiting, that tiny speck in the sky that some people point at, but is left unnamed. You stay. You become part of the everyday of that night sky, no matter how mundane it might be, because you are questing for that desire. It is only because you believe. You have faith that pushes aside fear and doubt. You have patience and understanding.
As time goes by, however, your prayer morphs. As time goes by, you plead to the universe to keep the fire kindling. You realize that in all of this, it was not that one thing you wanted. It was the fire, the glow of exhiliration, the quickening. You pray that it remains, that feeling, because to lose it is to become cold. It meant your core darkening into pitchblack. You are a star whose struggle has ended. It meant a dulling away when what you truly wanted was an explosion of colours. It meant dying. And you fear that more.
12:23 am 11/3/13
Then again, you realize, there are countless stars, just like how there are countless people. You wonder how many of them think the way you do, and feel similarly. You see that in the darkness of the night, the stars shine, but their brightness are never similar. One is bound to glitter more and be seen even through the humblest of telescopes. You realize that maybe the excitement is a mask to cover the incoming disappointment. You may not actually be gifted the desire of your heart and you are just bound to struggle against all the other stars' light. You push through the darkness. Perhaps this is why you have that adrenaline rush. It is the fire to give off light.
You are a star fighting to be noticed. You are a star waiting, that tiny speck in the sky that some people point at, but is left unnamed. You stay. You become part of the everyday of that night sky, no matter how mundane it might be, because you are questing for that desire. It is only because you believe. You have faith that pushes aside fear and doubt. You have patience and understanding.
As time goes by, however, your prayer morphs. As time goes by, you plead to the universe to keep the fire kindling. You realize that in all of this, it was not that one thing you wanted. It was the fire, the glow of exhiliration, the quickening. You pray that it remains, that feeling, because to lose it is to become cold. It meant your core darkening into pitchblack. You are a star whose struggle has ended. It meant a dulling away when what you truly wanted was an explosion of colours. It meant dying. And you fear that more.
12:23 am 11/3/13
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Short Stories
I've told you, better think deeply, contemplate with an open heart, consider all possibilities before you decide. I thought then you would have an ear for it. I was mistaken, though.
Tuesday
I thought lamb would be perfect for a midday meal. I wasn't mistaken. The fire obeyed the wind's whim and my chops turned out "al dente." I rushed to my room, grabbed my phone and speed dialled.
Her voice whisked from the other line. She's walking. I could hear her break through the air pressure. She was out getting late lunch. I told her about my achievement. She broke into a short laughter punctuated by congratulatory sarcasm. My heart would have broken if I did not know her enough, or maybe i really did not.
Next day, I showed her the picture i took of my perfect lamb. She stared at it for a few minutes. Then she stood up and declared, "Looks like a burnt heart." ...
My heart.
Amelie
It was not an ordinary day after all. There was no rain and the evening breeze did not freeze the tendrils of hair all over my body.
That night, i lie on my bed pretending to look at stars glimmering. It will always be pretend in this light-polluted city. It makes me long for home.
Somewhere, near the central, she probably sits watching another one of them old films she loves talking about. Either that or she reads until she falls asleep. If not, she stabs time with every drop of her fingers on the keyboard.
That night i missed her call. I missed her.
Mi Barrio
She sat quietly on the bed, with eyes intent on the film playing on the computer. Her eyes were not as void as they normally are. The plot seems to brighten them up with hues only a happy sky evinces. I walked up to her. She did not budge. I sat on the bed, forcing her to move.
She clicked. The film paused. I paused. I clicked.
On the screen, instead of what she was watching, is a hamlet in my country. Tiny earth-tone houses scattered across bright green grass carpeting the foot of a white-capped mountain. She was instantly fired up.
"This is a real place?" She queried as a child might pester a mother seeing something completely unknown. "It's so pretty. I wanna go there."
Me too. I want to take her there.
Parking
She was supposed to have been dropped at the rear car park. I stood there eyeing all the cabs passing. The wind was blowing the hair of the trees. They rustle in the quiet night. The stillness was disarming.
In the midst of alcohol residue swimming in my vision and endless acid reflux, i imagined her figure emerging from one of the dark corners. Perhaps under a tree, or from behind a car.
An entity with her hair a neat coif on her head, her fairly new bright blue jacket, and a tiny black dress. Her soft soles and adorable toes covered in pristine white shoes. My gaze moved to meet her eyes. Brown moons inside fresh almonds. She finally caught my eyes, and her lips broke to a warm smile.
Then, the night critters whistled of the moon taking its leave. The night is aging and I am in fact asleep.
It was a delusion. The dark remains dark. She was supposed to have been dropped, but perhaps she got lost. Perhaps... She is lost. Lost to me.
Tuesday
I thought lamb would be perfect for a midday meal. I wasn't mistaken. The fire obeyed the wind's whim and my chops turned out "al dente." I rushed to my room, grabbed my phone and speed dialled.
Her voice whisked from the other line. She's walking. I could hear her break through the air pressure. She was out getting late lunch. I told her about my achievement. She broke into a short laughter punctuated by congratulatory sarcasm. My heart would have broken if I did not know her enough, or maybe i really did not.
Next day, I showed her the picture i took of my perfect lamb. She stared at it for a few minutes. Then she stood up and declared, "Looks like a burnt heart." ...
My heart.
Amelie
It was not an ordinary day after all. There was no rain and the evening breeze did not freeze the tendrils of hair all over my body.
That night, i lie on my bed pretending to look at stars glimmering. It will always be pretend in this light-polluted city. It makes me long for home.
Somewhere, near the central, she probably sits watching another one of them old films she loves talking about. Either that or she reads until she falls asleep. If not, she stabs time with every drop of her fingers on the keyboard.
That night i missed her call. I missed her.
Mi Barrio
She sat quietly on the bed, with eyes intent on the film playing on the computer. Her eyes were not as void as they normally are. The plot seems to brighten them up with hues only a happy sky evinces. I walked up to her. She did not budge. I sat on the bed, forcing her to move.
She clicked. The film paused. I paused. I clicked.
On the screen, instead of what she was watching, is a hamlet in my country. Tiny earth-tone houses scattered across bright green grass carpeting the foot of a white-capped mountain. She was instantly fired up.
"This is a real place?" She queried as a child might pester a mother seeing something completely unknown. "It's so pretty. I wanna go there."
Me too. I want to take her there.
Parking
She was supposed to have been dropped at the rear car park. I stood there eyeing all the cabs passing. The wind was blowing the hair of the trees. They rustle in the quiet night. The stillness was disarming.
In the midst of alcohol residue swimming in my vision and endless acid reflux, i imagined her figure emerging from one of the dark corners. Perhaps under a tree, or from behind a car.
An entity with her hair a neat coif on her head, her fairly new bright blue jacket, and a tiny black dress. Her soft soles and adorable toes covered in pristine white shoes. My gaze moved to meet her eyes. Brown moons inside fresh almonds. She finally caught my eyes, and her lips broke to a warm smile.
Then, the night critters whistled of the moon taking its leave. The night is aging and I am in fact asleep.
It was a delusion. The dark remains dark. She was supposed to have been dropped, but perhaps she got lost. Perhaps... She is lost. Lost to me.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Nothing Quite Like It
There is nothing
Quite like me
Hopeless and dejected
Forlorn
Like a dried leaf falling
from a tree.
There is nothing
Quite like me
Slowly pulled
from my strong hold
By gravity
Or love.
They are quite the same
Aren’t they?
Quite like me
Hopeless and dejected
Forlorn
Like a dried leaf falling
from a tree.
There is nothing
Quite like me
Slowly pulled
from my strong hold
By gravity
Or love.
They are quite the same
Aren’t they?
Monday, March 4, 2013
The Offer
I close my eyes and I see storms rolling into winter…
Perhaps I can
Drown in the depths
Of your silence
Dance in the rain
Of your mirth
Tiptoe the outlines
Of your lofty dreams
Trail the history
Of your heartbeat
Waving in the undertones
Of the dim light
Perhaps I can
Tail the paths
Of your insatiable fire
Or roll off hill
Hearkening to the thunder
Of your frustrated summon.
Age in the weariness
In your eyes
And fold into the wrinkles
Of your agony,
Dejection in stone
I, however, shall not stand
then dive into the maze
Of your misgivings
4:32 PM 4/3/13
Perhaps I can
Drown in the depths
Of your silence
Dance in the rain
Of your mirth
Tiptoe the outlines
Of your lofty dreams
Trail the history
Of your heartbeat
Waving in the undertones
Of the dim light
Perhaps I can
Tail the paths
Of your insatiable fire
Or roll off hill
Hearkening to the thunder
Of your frustrated summon.
Age in the weariness
In your eyes
And fold into the wrinkles
Of your agony,
Dejection in stone
I, however, shall not stand
then dive into the maze
Of your misgivings
4:32 PM 4/3/13
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)