mnemosyne

i don't know if this is where i want to be anymore. i'm not one to complain but somehow, this isn't quite what i imagined things to be. sure. life is uncertain, and the things we ask or work hard for don't really turn out to what we thought they would be in the end. but isn't it a bit unfair to want and need something so badly and realize somewhere in the middle of it all, that what we have is really nothing compared to what we hope for? if only the degree to which we need and want is proportional to the veracity of what we attain sooner or later, then i guess i would find some comfort and satisfaction.

everything is susceptible to doubt. then again, everything is susceptible to anything. ideals can be corrupted. minds can be influenced. words can be twisted. a friend can easily turn into a foe. and serenity it seems can quickly (and decisively mind you..) turn into melancholy. change. the only thing that is certain in a world of uncertainty. always a transition. always moving. never in a standstill. an eternal alacrity of nanoseconds whose transitions fuel human emotion in a vicious cycle. love to denial. denial which shifts to despair. despair into a consuming hatred. hate which transmutes into numbness. insentience which gives way to forgetfulness over time. and all it takes is but a single, obtrusive memory.. a familiar sound, a lingering smell, to fall in love all over again. to the very object which caused you to deny, despair, hate, debilitate and finally forget. to love once again the same object with the same ferocious intensity. every time as if it were the first time.

life's prejudice lies in its preference to recollection even when the matter calls for abstraction.

anti-gravity

i miss daylight. for someone who is eternally consumed with night's passion, that says a lot.. i miss the warmth of it on my skin. i miss the shadow the sun gives me for company.. for the longest time i haven't had the luxury or the freedom to meander on footpaths and walkways that hold so much promise of serenity. stolen.. my capacity to dream awake in daylight. stolen..yes, but not lost.
as i contemplate all this, i smirk at my own foolishness. it's a pity i didn't realize it sooner. the thing i miss most about daylight, the thing that i revel most ardently in is not daylight per se' but her death. the futility of her struggle as the cloak of night drowns her.. how she taints the sky crimson as the stars pierce to reveal the monotony of her hue.. one false gradient after the other.. how she falls on her knees on the horizon in her reluctance to give way to the moon..
do you know why no one could ever be jealous of the sun's triumphs? it's not because sol can act just as serene without them... it's because her grandness, her benevolence is but a facade. a curtain dropped down to shield a staggering fear of vertigo. a beautiful curtain dropped down to mask a void that is her reality. she is but an occurence of multitudes thought special because circumstance placed her to temporarily warm a cold, orbiting rock... it is inevitable.. she will burn out. because all she really is.. is nothing but a black hole.

you've got it wrong... stars do not get tired of shining.. what they really grow tired of, is living a lie.

rage of angels...

"hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned... "

i agree. and to a degree, i know perfectly well what it feels like.. to speak and not be heard. to be looked upon but not seen. to be stripped and scrutinized in your nakedness, found to be lacking. nothing hurts more than being helpless in things that consume you. nothing maims the soul than knowing that there are things that move that are beyond you. that impossible is THE (if not the only) possibility of man.

i can not articulate what exactly it is i feel now that i see you struggle.. it is not triumph for i can never play the victor to the hurt of another.. it is not sympathy for you and i are too much of a stranger to the other. there is nothing between us. nothing between us. not anymore.

i wrote this piece a long time ago. when my pen would often stain the parchment with blood. but now that things ARE, i have to start letting go of things that have come to pass. my fist will clench no more. but they will never forget the blows that have landed. in this great future, i refuse to forget my past...part of where i want to be is knowing where i've been :

i guess this makes us even. the world dangles on the eloquence of a silence that is beyond even speech's descriptive capacity for words and utterances. if you need me, me and neil will be hanging out with the dream king. no part of me that denies your absence will endure. not on the faulty reason that me and john doe like the same ice cream. All the world is. All that I AM. The black of the blackest ocean. And that TEAR in your hand. Haze all clouded up my mind in the daze of the way IT COULD HAVE NEVER BEEN so you say and I say... Do you know YOU'RE FULL OF WISH and your baby, baby, babies? So, with all the phantoms and corpses you left encased in the tomb of my mind, I will catch a ride with the waxing and waning of the moon. It seems that I know you well. Well BETTER THAN I USED TO that is. How the world conveniently shrinks to a simple matter of LIGHT AND SHADE in reduced circumstances! I think there are PIECES OF ME you've never seen, perhaps ALL SHE IS, is nothing but a piece me YOU'VE NEVER SEEN WELL. [an abomination and selective mutiny to a beautifully composed song, redefined to better give word to my deafening silence due to an 11-month grudge. hail to a certain T.A. for putting into song, what I could have not sung better myself...]

penne

and the emotions that stir my blood causes nostalgic (albeit involuntary) convulsions as i watch ink bleed letters on paper. from intangible energy in the womb of my mind to undeniable proof of either my stupidity or my genius ah... the graceful strokes of the pen as it fills the emptiness of paper. there is no other word for it. it is utter bliss... my ideas may fade. and i may run out of words. but the pen will always have an affair with paper...

sigh

and in my helplessnes, a surrender that was not the least bit intent. i pray for a deafening silence to hush the turmoil that spills beyond the barrier of my skin. tears... fall into nothingness. beautiful no more when it meets the cold of the ground. beauty seeped within seconds, back to sad nonexistence... tears never did soothe the pregnant idea of an empty rage that tears at my defenses. and although i falter, i don't have to fall. but although the bruises that i feel will heal, turn away in respect, eyes that know nothing but damnation at my vulnerability. i am but human. i am but, a sad imitation of the gods. i am but, a sorry caricature of the perfection you house in your mind...

i hope i wear my nakedness well...