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...

Neruda's Sonnet XVII

CUD

why do i love you? i do not know exactly... i can not specify when or where or how. but it's as if i knew (as to the course of how i knew, it eludes me) when i saw you. it's as if i had a memory of you even before i saw your face or heard your name. by the time we locked eyes, i already knew your scent (nutmeg peach). i already knew the feel of you... down to the salt of your skin. my fingers catch sparks at the mere thought of touching you. there is no shame. no apologies... there are never those for loving you. ahhhh. the mystery of our rhythm...

i love you 10, 100, a million times more than i can probably express. all i know is this (and only this) : my love for you is absolute. never half-way. never one foot outside the door. never selfish but neither acquiescent. never trusting not to hurt but neither untrusting not to mend. never trusting not to fall out of love but neither untrusting not to love. never trusting in settling for anything less than this.

pardon my wordlessness.. you are much to prodigious (and god-classly so..) for my rhetorics.

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I LOVE YOU AS CERTAIN DARK THINGS ARE TO BE LOVED,
In secret, BETWEEN THE SHADOW AND THE SOUL.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers
Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you WITHOUT KNOWING how, or when, or from where.
I love you straight-forwardly, WITHOUT COMPLEXITIES OR PRIDE;
So I LOVE YOU BECAUSE I KNOW NO OTHER WAY THAN THIS.
Where I do not exist, nor you.
So close that your hand on my chest is my hand.
So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.