Without Pretense and Spectacles

To kiss the night sky bursting with stars,

To see the dreamer awaken from sleep,

To deem this life without weep,

To celebrate birth with pure tears,

To read stories in deafening silence,

To tell them with so much enthusiasm,

To see a blinding light,

To be guided by a flickering lamp,

To walk in haste,

To doze without care,

 

To love,

To consummate love,

To enjoy life,

To sink in sorrow,

To pursue a dream,

To build a career,

To create a family,

To grow old,

To die

And live again. 

 

All. Everything . . .  without pretense and spectacles, these  

                                               bits and pieces of irony make up a whole life,

                                                                            or perhaps death.

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Heaven

In a moment,

the reality of heaven

dawned on me.

And I was

paralyzed.

On Words and Writing

My words are boring, dull, and dust. It’s inadequate and wanting. As always. It fails to capture the accuracy of every moment, of a particular thought, and of the most intimate emotion. But who’s able to do that, anyway?

These words of mine have nothing new to offer the world. I know nothing and deserve no one to hear of me except myself. But my heart incessantly speaks to me. It says I must write. Hence, I must write and continue writing. Not for mere entertainment or to kill time, but for myself and the whisper that’s telling me to do so.

If I will not be able to let my thoughts be put into paper or published in this account, I will sabotage myself from itself;  a possible perpetual danger of shutting my own voice. It must be one of the gravest things man can do for himself. And I cannot do it.

I feel alive when words come to life. I discovered lately from Rilke‘s Letters to A Young Poet that one must truly write for himself, not for others. I ceased to care about its form. I feel like the greatest form of writing is being able to convey the intricate feelings and complex struggles of human emotion. So long as it speaks what the lips cannot fully utter and express in total abandonment intimate experiences to strangers.

Now, I’m beginning to write for myself without thinking of pleasing others or dreaming about being freshly pressed. LOL. But I admit I find joy when people read me. I appreciate that in space and time someone took notice of my writings. Or someone can actually relate to them. It amazes me that there are real people who liked my old boring and spontaneous musings. With that simple connection and my mind’s constant speeches, the urge to write becomes a wildfire. It causes me to feel more, love more, and see more… to open myself within myself and to the world around me.

Thus, I continue on this journey –summoning courage and embracing every moment. There is so much more to discover within my soul and to unravel in the world I call Hope, and to my home I call Glory.

 P.S.

Words are mere words. It is both simple and vague. Clarity and ambiguity live in its letters. From void to reality it takes us somewhere and leave us asking ourselves for its embedded meaning, value, and purpose.

Last Wish

I want to walk with you
Not the kind of ordinary walks made by ordinary people
Let us walk when the moon is still up
The stars still bright, like every four in the morning
When everyone’s still lying in bed

I want to walk with you
Not on ordinary pavements or at some crowded park
Where ordinary people come and go
Let us go and stroll at some strange island
Overlooking unknown horizon, against sharp winds

I want to walk with you, I really do
To hear your heart beat next to mine
To feel our hands dance in the rhythm of tide
To free our senses from the bars of the past
Fall on a trance we shall call romance

I want to walk with you
To see your face in the silent moonlit
To crack jokes only us understands
To seize this waking moment
We shall call ours

I want to walk with you
No one else but you
I don’t care what else we’ll do
We can let the time pass by tasting the morning dew
Or walk a mile ‘til our feet become sore

I want to walk with you
Without a care of the world,
Free from work,
Away from the city,
Quieted by the sea

I want to walk with you
Unlike ordinary walks we did for the last five years
Where we used to chase time, catch our breath,
And seize naught.

I want to walk with you
Unlike ordinary people like us
But like some crazy old friends–
Without care, drunk with laughter,
And perhaps, truly happy.

I want to walk with you, my dear
You know I really do
If we could have cheated death
And escaped time,
This last wish will surely be mine.

When?

When was the last time I felt really and deeply happy?

Was it the time when my family used to go on this public pool surrounded by rain forests and friendly strangers?

Was it when an MVP and an actual school heart throb laid eyes on me?

Was it when I bagged medals every end of the school year?

Was it when I dreamed of my first kiss?

Was it when I felt the nearness of a perfect bliss touching my virgin skin?

Was it when I let out a deep cry in my heart and felt a rush of love called heaven?

Or is it sleeping somewhere in the oblivion waiting to come alive?

 

How about your own happiness?

Sober

You said this would be better

I nodded, thinking you were sober

Few days passed,

No trace of your face or ass

We’re back to square one

Convinced you’re not my man

Again, we’re strangers to ourselves

No mem’ries of romance left

All died when you said it’s over

I agreed feeling stronger

I grew content without you

Without pain, without truth

Sleeping alone in the moon

Always waking up at noon

To escape morning dews

The boring familiar blues

Like us dancing in twilight

Imitating fireflies at midnight

My heart pounds like death

Numb, fearless, without breath

My body without a soul

Unleashing needless howl

If only you can hear me

I would rather be with thee

Than be free yet in grief

Come, heed me without disbelief

Leave your den, my love

Come back like a dove

Even if you’re odd, insane, and sober

I’d love you till it takes forever

distant stares

distant stares
occasional nods
unheard musings
sometimes enough

uncertain eyes
timid heads
apprehensions
converse in the air

you
me,
when shall
become we?

 

Untold Story of A Slightly Pathetic Suicidal Storyteller

I’m sitting on the sand looking at the horizon. My eyes are fixed as the sea begins to engulf the sun. Sometimes, it hides on the mountains. But tonight, it was drowned by the sea. The ball of fire once seat afloat far above the clouds is now under the sea, deep into the ocean. Will the fishes burn? What will happen to them? Will the fire flee from the sun?

Silly questions. Crazy imaginations.

Sometimes I feel like drowning myself into the sea or loosing myself under the sun. I have this urge to let go of myself and just disappear. Yes, disappear. I want to feel invisible, become invisible. Like the sun, I wanted to drown in the sea or hide in the mountains. In my heart, the need to lose myself and become invisible is screaming louder. From a gentle whisper to a fierce scream. Annoying yet invigorating. I feel that my soul has emerged from trying to become socially desirable into someone who wanted to be free of everything society has given. I feel like my identity was handed-down, inculcated, and dictated to me. I feel like a second-hand identity. I don’t know who I am and what I am capable of without this freaking and impossibly all-knowing society. The way I think was shaped and still being shaped by the society I live in and by the people around me.  My own spirituality has been from nothing into an extreme  supernatural intertwine of other-worldly events that you cannot or may not understand.

This whirlwind life has taken me afloat. I’m tired and will be severely tired soon. When can I find total satisfaction and pure joy? If I am to choose, I’d rather die today than experience hardship and inevitable pain. It’s not about courage or faith, but a matter of heart. I am restless. I know what will happen soon and even in the far future. If possible,I would gladly die this instant then ascend into heaven. That is what I want. I don’t want to be part of this world anymore. I just want to rest and be relieved from all the bullshit and fake happiness in this mess up world.

I’m still sitting on the same spot but my visions go far beyond what I saw earlier. Now, I am seeing myself standing above the sea. I don’t know how to swim and survive in the sea, but I know how to float. If I am to drown any time, I think I won’t survive long enough to be saved. Then again, I’d rather die.

If there is one thing I truly learned these past months, that is “It is always easy to give up and let go,  but that is not an option.” The thing is, I can do better than simply giving up and crying over the hardship I am in to. To be honest, such realization has not been easy for me. I’ve tried to kill myself. Only in my thoughts of course. I once jumped on a 20 foot bridge, but I find it gross. If I would jump, I would be graciously received by large stones sleeping on the dry river bed. I also planned hanging myself on the ceiling. However, I cannot find any strong knot inside the house. And I dreaded the idea of scaring my roommate once she found me pale, hanging, and lifeless. Thus, I decided not to kill myself.

However, the thought of killing myself lingered on my mind for weeks. Sometimes, I would be able to fight against it but there were moments that the urge becomes so strong and I would give in to it. But I won. I’m still alive and breathing.  Still, “I am half agony, half hope”.

Fin.

Soliloquy in Solace

Here I am in the middle of the city, under sky-ways, drenched, filthy, and alone.

The rain stopped, but its waters lingered on the streets I call home.

Tis be one of the many nights that I shall sleep in the cold, damp, and bustling air of the metro.

I have neither decent roof nor a mobile house.

This large city has been my home, for over a year now.

I am quite accustomed at going from place to place to find a spot to lay my head.

I don’t mind walking and sleeping on stranger’s properties.

I don’t mind about scavenging just to fill my groaning stomach.

Never did I detest begging for money.

But, I’ve always loathed other people’s stare.

The look in their eyes may be different, but they inflict the all too familiar pain.

Since I’ve sunk into the lowliest human status,

If you may call it as such, my heart never stopped aching.

Strangers look at me with disgust, fear, shame, and pity.

All too different, yet all too familiar feelings.

There were times that I would not mind them.

Among the four, I detest mostly the look of fear.

I never dreamed to be someone people would fear.

I haven’t done anything to cause them to fear me.

Ah! It may be  of my filthy clothes, lice-infested hair, yellow-black teeth,

and an altogether hideous appearance.

Nonetheless, I see nothing wrong with what I’m doing.

I feel totally comfortable at begging people for a few pennies.

At least, I am not stealing from others.

 

Days like sitting near a train station has been tiresome,

but it suits me.

I feel like a landlord waiting for my peasant farmers to come

and grant their harvest.

It may be a little different, but still I liked the idea.

I am thankful for those who give me food,

For that means I won’t be searching

For nearest garbage bin to find my dinner waiting.

 

But who am I, by the way?

I am nobody.

No one truly cares for me.

I reckon, nobody remembers me.

The woman who gave birth to me, the man who donated his genes,

Nor the nearest kin have long forgotten me.

I am nobody and no one cares for me.

You may think that those who give a dime care for me;

They do not.

They give because their conscience tells them to,

Without it, I would probably be dead by now.

People give for various reasons,

Some for love, out of genuine concern,

and others to show that they too

have a heart for the needy.

But for a beggar like me,

The poorest of the poor,

Who would truly care?

No one.

Not even you, reader.

And why do you even bother reading this?

Have you anything else to do that you

Made up to this point hearing my prideful woes?

 

Ah… I think I have exhausted myself from so much talking.

I haven’t told my entire story yet.

You heard of my petty perils,

But not of my deep sorrows.

Let my feet take me out of this damp road,

I am now to find my hidden nook.

Pray that I will see tomorrow,

So I may speak of the complete truth.