Fear

A beautiful quote from Princess Diaries. Of all places.

Courage is not the absence of fear, more of the knowledge that something else is more important than fear.

And fear is nothing more than having the courage to believe logically. Nothing more than a veil over those eyes we have longed to see opened and smiling, for so long.

And I and we make mistakes. Try to be perfect, try to forget the apostrophe that makes all the difference from a lie and a truth: imperfect.

Right now, right this moment:
Gracias, Nichole. Viejo amigo.

Bug

I found the secret to everlasting life in a virus.
They don't discriminate between people by skin color or belief; they give and take what they will.

The Purpose? To Convince

Because you know you want to, go on. Go on and tell yourself it would all have been better if you had gone the extra mile. Go on and try to chalk up more white lies then call the blackboard pure when it won't hide the scars anymore. You know you want to. Deep inside - no, maybe not so deep inside - you'll enjoy being exposed. You are going to enjoy having the limelight. You will revel in a gaze even if it was aimed at you in disgust; you would likely auction off yet more of yourself for any amount of time someone spent believing in the illusion with you. Somehow comfort can come in the kind of form; somehow when misery has company, company's comfort. Ice cubes that will melt away only too quickly in a hot desert sun - you complain your glass is half empty when you've already taken so much, accepted and begged for and stolen and conned for so much, you don't remember actually owning something anymore. 

Trek Back

In the summer the bamboo groves remain cool
They await the lonely wanderers
Who crawl or limp in
Having long lost their way elsewhere
They await the the odd coincidence
When two solitaires meet in a single deck
Strolling along the same tired old track
Attempting to find without having to search

The scholars and artists sit by
Penning disciplined hypotheses and
Fantastical descriptions of beauty they are not
And will not and cannot see
Because they picture the lights of the day only
Smeared onto their canvas and paper
In only the pre-manufactured commercial pigments
Everybody can find anywhere else.
They will never know what we - yes, we -
Have seen and will see
In our memories, in our dreams
To remember

In the summer there are only hearts
To forgive and forget.

Track

The cement turned to quicksand beneath her nimble feet.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
One step forward. Another. Stop.
Stuck. Can't move; can't move: just one more step.
Breathe in. Out.
Dodge around - no use, keep running... Stop!
Breathe. In-out.
Come on. Voices ringing, echoing in dark, spiraling voids.
Just another basement floor push-up, right?

Flight: Fiction Fifty-Five

Fiction 55 had a topic a while back, a theme called Flight.

It's long over but here goes nothing:

It was a graveyard for spoilt makeup, torn net leggings and hastily ripped packaging. Boarders got the barest inch of space in their final resting place, and occasional neighbors always intruded, displacing comrades, with hot, sweaty skin, before the landlord evicted his most recent pretty little butterfly. They left in teary flutters of their wings.

Was it You?

I gave you a bouquet for Christmas
Grew each bloom by myself
Here in this old garden
Even when the snows came
And froze the ground
I carried the tears off your cheek
Planted them as seeds
Sprinkled a little dedication and foreplay
Propped up their heavy buds
And wrinkled leaves
Watched the petals disentangle
Till a knot formed in my throat

And they say that the thread of friendship
Can be mended when broken
But there'll always be that extra knot
The little bit of sensitivity
That builds itself up to a trauma
Deep within your eyes and
The quivering of your hardwood lips

You rejected my present on Christmas morning
Shut the door in my face
So I stared at goofy Santa on your wreath
Finding no humor in his sadistically cheerful grin
You came back put to hand me a rose
Picked, sieved from the blooms
I'm sorry to say
I only felt the thorns

So where does that put us?
I will never know when to call you
Whether I'm even authorized now that
It's not official anymore
Where does that leave us?
Lying somewhere between lost and found
No mutiny of the broken
Just a dead love of a token
Not much more than the empty boxes
Hiding beneath mangled wrapping papers
In the shadow of your Christmas tree

I was mistaken.
I apologize while I long for an apology
Apologize while I wait for forgiveness
I was mistaken.

It seems
There was never an 'us' to leave carelessly around
Stolen treasured memories from
Under the great pine tree

Present

glances askance
for lack of something
better
to say

I'd offer you my heart
but
you'd only give it away

In Which I Apologize

I'm sorry. If I haven't been the perfect person for you, I'm sorry. For the times I have stood before you and announced, said, done stupid things: I'm sorry. I could swear I would try harder if I had to do it all over again, but I don't want to be feeding you anymore lies. You've already been stuffed full of them and now that you're free of me I'm going to bet you will wonder what you ever saw in me. You're going to begin recognizing me as only the handpicked little goody-two-shoes you never got to know before she started bossing you around, taking chances and risks without telling you, procrastinating on important things she'd promised and then giving you all sorts of various excuses so typically secure you couldn't see through them. Or maybe that arose more from her acting. She's always been able to act well; taking it off the camera, off the stage, off the big screen, is just another little project for her to take on. You don't know how much work she goes through behind the scenes to ensure she never removes her mask.

You may or my not hear this apology of mine. You're probably too busy, entangled in your petty daily complexities, to hear me when I gaze at you somedays, telling myself maybe it won't make a difference in a month's time, a year's time. The only problem with that is, I don't want it to not make a difference. I want you to remember me for everything I've done, for you and to you. Just not this way.

I'm sorry.

Barriers

People around you only look uncaring and distant because they're standing miles away, gathered at the foot of walls you erected yourself. You did it to stop things from coming in and hurting you but nowadays it's only stopping you from going out and getting healed. There's a risk behind every cure and this is one you've never been willing to take. When pain gets bitter it doesn't even remotely taste of medicine. It's like the drug you take to get high for a moment. Sometimes afterwards you blame every tiny mistake upon that past fault. You dramatize it to a certain extent trying to pretend it actually had such a huge impact on you when in reality you only want some attention; someone to walk in through your bedroom door after he hears you screaming from your nightmare. He'll pull your arm gently and suddenly you're free of sheets you were drowning in only seconds before. You know in your heart of hearts that this feels right, he has come solely to give and not to take. But even when that thought crosses your mind you know you will give in the end. You can't. So you push him away and erect another wall around yourself. Higher, stronger. Better.

Big Yellow Taxi

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer farmer
Put away the D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Late last night
I heard my screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

I said don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

- Joni Mitchell

Desire

The whole trouble with it is the way it makes you reach past boundaries you'd never considered existed for your trespassing before. Some
moral, some physical but most mental, perceptional. But as you steal and take and lie and cheat you come to realize you just feel more empty and a lot less. When you come to think of it. If you still find yourself capable of thought outside of want.
Free yourself.
Shatter those shackles.
Welcome back.

TragiComedies

I sit back and watch shifting patterns of tragedy flicker over your features. Over by the eyes some soil erosion causes loss. It makes it all the more easy for the breaking of the dam, the opening of the floodgates of your tears.  

Hey, All

For every person who has ever, in the depths of a fight that has gone on seemingly forever, spat "times infinity" at the end of a statement, there should be another who gently condescends: "times love". Because how can a million poets and novelists romanticize the word without knowing it in both comfort and spite? In tennis when neither player has a point it is known as "love all". Zero all. Zero = love = infinity because that how long it lasts.  

The Long Way Home

Loss stirs a heartache
I finally reach home, past
Evanescent storms

Thank You For Forgiveness

I wonder at the miracle that is the relief when you call me after days of silence with not a single trace of bitterness or resentment lingering long in your voice. I listen while you divulge your secret fears and feelings to me just like old times, but do not speak for a while in response when you ask me what I think. Because I was under the impression you might never speak to me again, but here you were calling me on a Friday afternoon asking me to listen to you ranting about yourself. For once I am glad to hear the very sound of your voice.
And you seem upset. You have been speaking in words too fast, too rapid and too tear-strained for me to catch, so I whisper to you to slow down, calm down, a million times over. Eventually your breathing begins to deepen and not catch midway down, and I can practically hear the flow of tears drying up and being wiped away by your ever-callous hands. Then, in this moment of silence, I speak and tell you I have missed you.
I never realized till this day that quiet words spoken into telephone receivers could ever echo so greatly once repeated.

Fool Again

I admit that too long I have used lies as excuses, tried to fool people around me. Try to make them believe I am more than all I really am because maybe that's what I wanted in the first place. But I haven't become that imaginary alter-ego who owns the life I want to live. I haven't managed it because it takes a strong will to face the music and I haven't got one of those either.
Occasionally I take a break from lying and begin spouting various words that sometimes impress people but I realize more often irritate them. Perhaps that's a self-deprecatory comment but I'd like to believe that by sometime soon I will be able to make a statement out clear that I mean fully, with no hidden meanings shyly staying undercover. Incognito. Beneath the sound waves of my voice float so many layers of meanings. And when you begin lying you don't stop so all you do eventually is confuse your lies with the truth.
There is a certain pity in my own gaze when I glance in the mirror. It is the kind of pity one uses when looking at someone who has only been trying to fool herself.

Tightrope Walker

A little spurt becomes a stream or an ocean of inspiration into which you are suddenly but not unpleasantly plunged. The next thing you know, you begin following this stream wherever it will go, doing a great many things you may later find extremely foolish in order to keep with the whim of the moment.
Every little thing from a single word from someone you secretly admire or are jealous of to a single failure on your own part sends you off on another wild goose chase. Only you aren't chasing birds of any kind - you're chasing the success they tell you waits like light at the end of the tunnel. I tell you that that could just be the train racing towards you poised for murder.
And you realize with time that chasing time isn't the hardest thing to do on earth. It's balance, maintaining balance, that is truly difficult. Because you must have enough control to neither take one side nor the other but to take the middle path. Yet don't sit on the fence - the aim is to be strong enough to walk upon it, with your head held high and nothing to stop you from continuing on. The aim is to grow and be yourself no matter the winds that blow and the winds that try to change and erode you. Ignore the itches and ignore the sweat contaminating your brow. Ignore the rains when they come or at most see them as blessings to wish you good luck upon your lonely way.

How Many Times

I want to be the one to tell you it's alright, it's okay, when you wake up screaming in the middle of the night and you're drenched in cold sweat but more importantly drowning in old memories of the black and white that lived long ago. Those days are extinct now but your recounts of them live on despairingly despite your continued efforts to forget. I pity that you suffer now from the atrocities of other people, other men under orders from their superiors up there in ivory towers who see nothing but what they themselves receive because long ago they realized how easy it was to fool. I want to be the one to stroke your midnight black hair back from your face and rub your back soothingly as if you were a child again because even if I spend the rest of my days with you it seems it wouldn't be enough not being there for you. And I know it seems strange but I wish your skeptical nature would accept and believe just this once to let me love you. I know you've been hurt before and all that other shit everybody uses as lame excuses to avoid commitment. I know that you don't lie until you want to conceal and not to deceive but please conceive of the idea that some people do still have happy ever afters. I can say this despite having been knocked to the ground and having shattered; having loved and lost: but all that matters now is you and me, and us. And I want to let you know that in terms of math, I've never passed exam when I'm still clinging on to the idea that you and I added together should equal one since we are the same, inside. I want to touch you and melt the wall of ice you've built around yourself because I understand you only erected it to see who would be brave enough to knock it down. Does it scare you that despite your valiant efforts I know so much about you? It scares me to know that there is still more to you, that I have barely even scraped the surface in all my actions and words. So upon my farewell I hereby bequeath to you all that I have and all I have given to let you know:
I want you and I love you.

Viva la Vida.

Put Your Hands Together

I feel sorry as I watch the others rehearse that our audience on show night will never know these memories as they observe the polished final product. I feel hurt and pained at the knife needed to scratch away the surface to reveal the diamond beneath. I am glad that we and no other group of people have come together and have created something out of nothing. A certain comradeship undeniably glints under the stage lights, obvious in the way we speak together even when opposing and the similar fashion in which we shiver from the cold and from the sheer adrenaline of having a time, though meager, in which we can speak and people will listen - although of course the aim was never to have people listen. The aim was always to simply put up a good show and entertain people, satisfying yourself. And it will not ever make a difference how loud the applause is or whether you receive a standing ovation - it will always have been about the root.

We Steal

The Kite Runner contains a glorious passage depicting a great many moments of backstabbing, of lying, cheating... Stealing. We
steal things so often we barely even recognize the crime. No copyright infringement intended here, but this is golden to
describe the current situation with me.

"...there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft... When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness... There is no act more wretched than stealing."

Past

OUT of the blue you attempt to make a contact. I realize now that despite past promises to pacify and reassure we have reached the point where the nickname I vaguely recall once labelling is a tongue-twister to me, and it's sound hanging in the oppressive atmosphere rings of guilt like bellchimes in an abandoned old church. I am sorry for everything but I am glad that we are.

Human Error

I envy and pity you the ties that bind you, that may very well break you. I am glad and sorry that you aren't aware of the danger posed to yourself by allowing someone this close to you. I wonder at the ease with which you whip out your phone or allow your picture to be taken because that's leaving a memory behind in permanent inky pixels. I hobble along behind your laughter, face turned to the ground and smiling to it instead for the scene I see before me. Your gazes have summed each other up then elaborated again, a stretch-release-stretch-release-stretch motion allowing maximum knowledge of the other. You joke around like this is a competition about who's the best comedian, and then you ask me to join in.
I gaze so deep into the distance you assume I am looking away; you let it go instinctively and safe again I pray: it's alright, it's okay - ask me about tomorrow? I'm only here today.

Industrialization

How do you still call creativity what is is when you gauge it with criteria in rubrics and try to plot out your world into a couple of graphs, try to summarize it, oversimplify it, into nothing but a couple of tables exploding with listless numbers leading identical lives watching people gawk in wonder at them. When actually these people could be watching the real world around them, maybe even changing, affecting the real world, instead.
Peel your eyes off your damned computer and phone screens and attempt to realize that while the city's lights are never put out, the sunlight you see now must be treasured.

From Mo To You

HOLDING my hand used to be every time we went out together. You gave me a fresh start; you were this flower of a body, this poem of a life... And sometime later in this life of mine, all your Mama's going to be able to give you back is this crumpled old shell, this liver spotted face of a mask hiding what lies undulating gently beneath - a blemished, scarred and fractured soul tired of tasting nothing but bitterness but afraid of straying away from pain, because at some point in time I realized that when you have nothing else to tell you that you're still alive, that you're still breathing despite no longer having any reason to. And angry. Yes, angry. Angry, at myself, for just not being able, anymore.

At this point in time, I turn to you, my child, you who yet relies on me with the ease of taking things for granted, because your heart has never had to be picked off the ground in bits and pieces then glued back  together so it looks quite the same but has definitely changed. Because even though I try to let you feel and taste and touch and smell the world you have not really seen what kind of world it is. And so I ask you now, maybe because I want to have the luxury of being selfish for just a moment, today, and ask you in that voice you surely find annoying, leaning towards you in that way you surely find mere pretending: "Are you going to be around, when I can no longer stand by myself, to take my hand, hold it tight, and not let go?"

Clear

ephemeral clouds
darken my old backyard view
then leave, defeated

Carry On

When everything becomes a competition do you forget what you are fighting for? Because you're so blinded by single-mindedness, do you tend to forget the reason you started the whole fiasco in the first place? Originally it may have been a good reason but after a while is it less about that far-off prize they keep telling you to believe in and more about the little battles along the way? About the many other people running the same stupid race.
When you think about the material wealth you enjoy you wonder what is really important. Living life in the fast lane shouldn't become an excuse for not stopping to smell the roses. If you travel long enough on a highway you're bound to get tired of breathing in the toxic fumes fed into your aching lungs by jealousy, hatred, fear, anger, hurt - all the backstabbing and unseen glares that result from feelings like those. You're bound to die one day from it though you deny the cause of your departure was the very thing you felt kept you alive. Because that's what being a workaholic is like. It seems once you give it up there's no going back. Lose your momentum and lose your life - that scrap of a consolation prize you call a life that you could easily have brought in for an exchange had you just been a little bit more brave.
And maybe it sounds pessimistic but at the end of all that what have you got left? When your last breath had abandoned your empty shell of a tortured body what have you got left? The knowledge that memories of you remain in the minds of some, at least.
Whether they be good ones or bad ones, it's up to you now.

Girls

YOU know, 'princess' used to be a compliment. Used to be that hearing someone call you princess was just the tip of the iceberg. The final piece to a jigsaw puzzle that without it would have made sense but always seem incomplete. Perhaps the mere word, the suggestion that a special someone, at the very least of all people on the planet, considers us unique and beautiful and almost like royalty itself, is the thing that makes those normally fair cheeks to go a secret abashed red. Maybe it's the immediate reaction of the thought that we are definitely unworthy of such a name, that a word like that is wasted on us when it could spend its airbourne life depicting someone or something else more. Although of course oftentimes when we make self-derogratory comments like those, most of the time we mean the exact opposite of what we say; as if matters of the heart must go through an inevitable, inescapable translating filter that reverses everything so the words we speak come out warped and yet seem true.
Just like the words you, yes you, speak sometimes, like at times when you call us 'princess'.

Unscene

A lonely instrument, hoarse from hours of desperate over-playing, weaves its solitary thread into the night. Only occasional does its murky iridescence get perceived by a casual observer, a passerby - and even then most would turn away after a moment's careless reconnaissance. But the very soundwaves that grace the air are enough to travel the length of the difference in social level, because the occasional dreamer who walks past will recognize them as works of an artiste worthy of being recognized.   

A Beautiful Mess

You've got the best of both worlds
You're the kind of girl who can take down a man
And lift him back up again

You are strong but you're needy, Humble but you're greedy
Based on your body language and shorty cursive I've been reading
Your style is quite selective
But your mind is rather reckless
Well, I guess it just suggests that this is just what happiness is

And what a beautiful mess this is
It's like picking up trash in dresses

Well, it kind of hurts when the kind of words you write
And kind of turn themselves into knives
And don't mind my nerve you can call it fiction
'Cause I like being submerged in your contradictions, dear
'Cause here we are, here we are

Although you were biased I love your advice
Your comebacks they're quick and probably
Have to do with your insecurities
There's no shame in being crazy depending on how you take these
Words they're paraphrasing;
This relationship we're staging

And what a beautiful mess this is
It's like we're picking up trash in dresses

Well, it kind of hurts when the kind of words you say
Kind of turn themselves into blades
And the kind and courteous is a life I've heard
But it's nice to say that we played in the dirt
'Cause here, here we are, here we are

Here we are, here we are
Here we are, here we are
Here we are, here we are
Here we are, we're still here

And what a beautiful mess this is
It's like taking a guess when the only answer is yes

And through timeless words and priceless pictures
We'll fly like birds not of this earth
And tides they turn and hearts disfigure
But that's no concern when we're wounded together
And we tore our dresses and stained our shirts
But it's nice today -
Oh, the wait was so worth it...

- Jason Mraz

A Little Like Spaghetti

I used to have this teacher in Primary One. She was my Chinese teacher and my form teacher that year. I suppose she didn't consider me a bad student - just one who didn't apply herself enough. I managed to top my class in Chinese every test - if you counted from the bottom. She didn't want to force a young kid to study or anythng I suppose but in some ways she tried to motivate me.
I remember mostly the times she came so close to scolding me that her face went all red and she had to hold her breath before letting it out in one huge sigh as if to release all the tension in her body. And the times afterwards that she personally volunteered - or rather, took it upon herself - to retie my hair which has always been and will always be in a state of disarray comparable to an estate recently ambushed by a mega hurricane. Her hands gently combing my hair together and pulling it into two slender ponytails (a puerile style I didn't mind then) seem to flutter even now, gracing these locks which by now have replaced the actual ones those fingers once condescended themselves to. And it's at times of reminisce like this that I recall the real weight her work-calloused digits have carried in my life and in their own. For she must have worked long and hard to see potential in a little girl when everyone else just saw trouble. Trouble in the form of unstoppable daydreams and absentminded spells. Trouble in the form of stubbornness and immaturity. Trouble in the form of messy hair and unkept fingernails and generally the impression of stupidity.
But I think back now and I wonder if even she will be able to recognize what her little mess has become.

Climate Change

He notices the lamps had been left out in the rain and are now both dripping with water. He stops and asks if he thinks it's alright.
Yes, it is.
Solar-powered lamps. Meant, destined to absorb sunlight.
You leave them out in the morning to spend a quiet day absorbing copious amounts of sunshine. How are you supposed to know whether it's going to rain or not?
You can't get sun without the rain.
You can't take heat and not feel the pain.
But when all else is lost you may just have found your name.

Suffocate

I started out optimistic, I guess. But when the going began getting tough I didn't and couldn't get tough. So now that maybe leaves me
stranded. Marooned on an island by myself sustained only by what little energy I can make for myself out of a hope kept burning by the turning of these waves and the imagination that perhaps they are getting bigger and higher because a ship is coming by to my rescue, and not because they want to drown me, as well. I'm grasping for seconds and groping for hours, hoping for days and longing for weeks.
Sometimes when I speak I no longer hear a voice outside of myself because it's being pushed down by all the other ones in a crowd.

Grow

THINGS caught in the middle of growing aren't ever perfect. They have their extreme faults and weaknesses which are noticeable right away even as these problems are sorted out gradually before one's eyes. But perhaps it is in these tiny faults that we find the kind of perfection we were seeking to discover all along. This perfection isn't the flawlessness of the surface or the achievement of precise ratios; it is a measure of how much beauty we can find in ugly, how much ugly we can find in things people would normally, judgementally assume beautiful after but a moment's careless glance. This kind of beauty is the kind of impermanence of form brought about by permanent changes continuously made to improve and the prove.
Plants can seem to change and grow overnight, sprouting a new creeper or the beginnings of a new leaf, the first signs of an approaching flower bud. Maybe if we bothered to look more carefully these changes wouldn't surprise us as much. But somehow plants manage to surprise me everyday when I look outside my window and wonder how they can hold on strongly, trusting a steadfast earth to stay and nourish them. They surprise me when they do not look as though they are crying even when the great thunderclouds begin rolling in and making a ruckus, squeezing and wringing their joyous rain out to moisten the thirsty ground. They surprise me when trees always seem to hold their branches up into the air like they have always known that they will someday grow tall enough to reach whatever they are trying to reach and in the meantime they must keep their arms outstretched in anticipation of a bright new future.
And children. Children aren't quiet at all. They won't bother to attempt to mask their own faults; they will crave to know their world and gaze up at night onto the universe of stars their parents got painted onto their bedroom ceilings, wondering how come when they try to grab ahold of the stars in the pond out back they just shatter away. Children won't hesitate in silence to laugh or cry or sing or dance because to them the context doesn't mean a thing: situations are for grown-ups to be trapped by, and they will do as they please even if it may seem inappropriate because who else would break the ice?
Perhaps these things gradually begin to sound like mistakes, but even if they are, these little things know in their heart of hearts that they only have to ask to be forgiven, and thanked.
And perhaps this is why we remember our time spent growing and changing the most. We praise it, we reminisce about it, we envy it and we yearn for it. The faults we have in our growing will not remain in the corners of our memories but become but the shadows and echoes of a time long past.
And when I think about these times I wonder if history will repeat itself, again.

Move

I've spent almost my entire life trying to make life work as if it were a book, where the characters have their good and bad moments and there's always a decisive ending: happy or sad, and where everything is either black or white with no grey in-between to be confused by and to get lost in. I've tried to imagine that sometimes things do happen like they do in fairytales, or musicals - like when the two main leads have one of those touching (and cliched) moment together basically reveling in each other's loving arms and one starts singing first the other one always knows what to say. In real life we know what to say so little of the time. And even when we do know oftentimes in order to gain things for ourselves we don't say what we should.
And time flies but somehow there's always enough time in books and movies for the starcrossed lovers to make up or die a tragic death and be together after it; there's always time in stories for the heroes to save the world while fighting off bad guys against all odds; there's always time to accomplish the impossible. And I wonder why if humans are so smart why don't they write themselves a realistic situation, write it so well they could disappear into it and never have to face the challenges of old age and everyday struggles again. In books people only get sick with terminal diseases because no author would write an illness in for no reason. And if we are looking for some form of escapism why do we write ourselves so many spare fantasies to imagine ourselves into, instead of writing realities to imagine ourselves out of?
Things don't happen like they do in books and movies we must carry on even when it seems that the ideal ending has passed us without stopping to give itself to us. We must try until they bear some vague semblance to the kind of happy ending we would like, or at least imagine that we have what we cannot, for another day or another life.
Things don't happen like they do in books and movies. There's no use pretending or spending too much time pondering over what it would be like if they did. So we must learn to make things happen for ourselves. So even when they really don't turn out well, it wouldn't be because we didn't try.

Cold; So Cold

SHE only replied:
"It's like how there are no ice cubes that never melt."

LittleLight

IN the middle of a suddenly sullen night an orange glow attempts to gently illuminate its sultry surroundings. To any casual observer it would seem nothing more than a little lamp light. But to some others who bothered to imagine about such things they see it is a beacon, of many different things to many different people. To the jobless tramp who roams such streets at such hours it is a beacon of warmth, an extension of a sort of helping hand even if it only proffered the tiniest imaginable dosage of hope. To the tiny child still within its cradle it is a pretty decoration to widen one's eyes at, to point out to mother at and gaze in shared wonder at. To the mostly ignored little fly it is an enchanting little trap to which though they recognize in some part that comes from deep within themselves is dangerous, is harmful, they will still sing a soft serenade to it all the night long, sometimes forcing a particularly high pitched note, refreshing breath of a note and sometimes sticking to a steady low groove. No matter what, however, it's pitch will remain seemingly undulating irregularly despite occasional repeats of the simplicity of it's melody.
A little lamp is a little beacon. It is simple and yet it is complicated. How many times a day have you oversimplified the littlest things?

Things to Do Before You Die 7

REACH the point where limits make you boundless.

Context

Is it good that now kids from big cities are now learning about their world from textbook pages and workshops?
They sit and let their eyes glaze over staring distantly at their teacher, who has come with a bunch of PowerPoint slides that basically put the textbook's exact words into extremely long bullet points. She reads off them and tries to let her students understand about sunshine. How it lets the plants make food to grow well and big. How you can't look at the sun because it's too much for your corneas to take. And later for a test they will be studying the words of their textbooks, perhaps even have wandere into their yards to do so, and their eyes will only see the words on a page, not the sight before their eyes of the very plants and the very light they speak of.

On My Way Here

I took my first step 
On that black and white kitchen floor 
I sometimes wonder if that house 
Is even there, anymore 
I had my first glimpse of love 
When I was five 
I watched two people split apart 
But still the three of us survived 

I've seen the best 
I've seen the worst 
I wouldn't change what I've been through 
I've touched the sky 
I've hit the wall 
But I did what I had to 
Ooooohhhh 

CHORUS: 
On my way here 
Where I am now 
I've learned to fly 
I have to want to leave the ground 
I've fallen hard 
But I've been loved 
And in the end it all works out 
My faith has conquered fear 
On my way here. 

Oh yeah yeaaah 

My address has changed 
Almost every year 
I've found that standing still 
Can quickly make a lifetime disappear 
I'd rather try and fail 
A thousand times denied 
And this, whenever you feel pain 
It lets you know that you're alive 

I've been a fool 
I've been afraid 
Yeah, I've been loved 
I've been lied to 
I've been wrong 
And I've been right 
I stood up when I had to 

Yeah Yeahhhh 

On my way here 
Where I am now 
I've learned to fly 
I have to want to leave the ground 
I've fallen hard 
But I've been loved 
And in the end it all works out 
My faith has conquered fear 
On my way here. 

No guarantees 
I believed that I would find 
An open door or a light 
To lead me to the other side 
I guess that is why 

On my way here 
Where I am now 
I've learned to fly 
I have to want to leave the ground 
I've fallen hard 
But I've been loved 
And in the end it all works out 
My faith has conquered fear 
On my way here 

Yeahhhh 
Oooooohh

- Clay Aiken

Tumbling Down

There is no longer any time to learn to forgive and forget and to be the impossibly nice people always able to see a situation "from someone else'a shoes" to figure out the best possible solution. There is no longer any time to wonder about the things that did not happen, nor about the things that did. There is only time to move on and past; and those who struggle to do so will only end up falling behind. No other competitor in this race is about to slow down to make you feel better. There is only time to assume innocence that it's not possible for everyone to claim truthfully, time to tell yourself it's not your fault, that nothing you could or could not have done would have made the slightest difference. In the end the outcome would have been the same. It would have been the musty, gradual sinking in, forced acceptance of the truth that sometimes your best isn't good enough. Sometimes your worst isn't even bad enough to call yourself hopeless so they give up on you. 
It makes it worse that this time round you had the audacity to hope. You believed with the kind of fierceness only denial will supply you. You built yourself a palace wall to watch the results from and now you are hiding behind in because with every celebratory firework they seem to be setting off it's like five arrows aimed towards your heart. You can even feel the arrows just barely missing, singeing past the surface of your skin. Sometimes they don't miss but after hours of minutes of torture you don't feel that anymore.  

Or perhaps you just wish you didn't. 

Sky Eyes

WHEN you look up at the sky you see such a small piece of the actual, humongous plot of land-above-land that you like to believe it's flat. Sort of like a piece of cloth into which the sun, the clouds were sewn on - and the clouds perhaps none too well either, for the cirrus marshmallow-like puffs continuously moved about on it's surface, almost as if wondering, like nomads whose directions literally changed with the the very winds that blew against their cheeks, by this time perhaps frozen as hard as luck.
You see a flat surface but in reality the sky itself is just an atmosphere. A circular bubble of sorts surrounding the Earth. Only of course, you choosing to see through the view of the idle cloud watcher that you are, will call it all sorts of things. A place for birds to fly free, for the sun to drive his golden chariot over daily, blazing a trail that only fades reluctantly into night in the quiet evening when it is quite done mingling about with the little creatures about at such times.
You forget to remember and acknowledge that the small patch of sky you see is but a fragment of a portion of the sky over your country. The sky over your country is but a small percentage of the actual area of sky there actually is to be seen and witnessed. Lone people who have nothing better to do than travel the world with their savings will tell you they have seen plenty of pieces of sky, maybe to the point where they all begin to look the same.
So hold your breath. Hold your breath and for a moment imagine the clouds will stop moving along with you. That they will stop frolicking frivilously about, gilded by a sun they simultaneously steal the limelight from draw from, just to wait for you to release that breath. But don't let go yet. Hold it. Hold it till you know you have realized that you yet know nothing. Then let it go. Like the ugliest repercussion of the most regretted bad mistake, let it go. Like an issue you have long longed to forgive someone for, let it go. Forget. But remember to remember.

Question Yourself

HOW often do we push ourselves beyond our normal limits?
How often do we keep running even though our legs are aching, our lungs are burning?
How often do you have to say No till someone understands you really mean it?
How often do you have to prove yourself so that people trust you?
How often do we say maybe when we mean never, say never when we mean yes?
How often do we deny what our bodies are telling us, what some deep, hidden part of us is whispering to us? We wander around aimlessly attempting to find ourselves when really we could have spared ourselves the trouble by just sitting down and thinking about it for a moment. A moment when the world is quiet so we may shout to ourselves, get a grip on our own collars, give ourselves a mental shake and say Look. This is you. This is who you have been, and who you will be. This is the mind you have nurtured unknowingly, and these are the values instilled in you gradually. These are the people you know, the people you love, the people you get annoyed with and the people you meet and never quite touch. These are the things that you do; so what are you going to do next?

Angels

angels cup their mouths
giggling uncontrollably
at human antics

frivolous creatures,
they give, and they take away
little memories

and they yet crouch down
faces hidden, in a kind
of bruising darkness

Names

I want a name for the view over the back of my shoulder, of this path I've already walked upon, fell down upon, cried upon and smiled upon. I want a name for the ground beneath my very feet even now holding me steady, eternally still, secure, loyal, helping me to stay upright even as it keeps me to the ground. Because you can't have roots and wings at the same time.
I want a name for the horizon stretching lazily our before my eyes, one that yet seems far away and untouchable, even thoug I try to believe what everybody tells me; that I only have to keep walking and eventually I'll get there. Then you have people who insist the whole point of walking is the journey and not the destination. Because the journey is a process and the destination is a place that with the right kind of determination you can continuously move further away from yourself - restless destinations that will somehow tire your body and drain your emotions.
I want a name for the people and their acts, to which I bear solitary witness every day because at times it feels as though I am the only one who can be bothered enough to watch another instead of focusing straight ahead at the prize everyone seems to be chasing. But because the sun's out too hot we are running on indoor treadmills and not realizing that even this slight human simulation reduces how human we are; how many scars will have kissed our skin and maybe left a mark there at the end of our roads.
I want a name for the things I pass by like flotsam on yet another unidentifiable river, whose name nobody but those above it all knows. Because I never really touch the permanent banks of these people crowding these stalls, their spirits forced to live so far beneath the radar that even the underground seems above it. And much as I like to pretend that the collars of waste that will someday wash up on these shores will include myself in their number, I also want to roam freely. I want to be taken in somewhere that will release me enough to hurt myself, but accept me again when I come crawling home bleeding from wounds to my body and my heart. And maybe that's selfish but after years of living on this Earth and feeling my fellow people I want to be the one people will tend to and care about. Just like the proud workaholic who comes home, removes her ridiculous high heels and runs crying into the arms of an understanding soulmate who will let her stain his shirt with the tears of her labor. And he will rock her to sleep that night just as her mother did before, because someday we will alll return to our beginnings. We will all die and we will all be born. We will name things for ourselves; we will be selfish and self-centred and we will take but we will also give. We may or may not question the kinds of gifts we are blessed with daily but we will know the names of our true selves when we run hurt into the arms of someone who cares, enough.

Develop

PATIENCE is a virtue, but sometimes you also have to keep in mind that some flowers never come to fruition. Although perhaps that's why flowers are beautiful, romantic. Full of potential.

For What It's Worth

There was an expert watchmaker whose son was about to get married. To help with wedding preparations, he asked his boss for an extended period off work. Of course, his boss, reluctant to let his best watchmaker go for so long, requested that he make just one last watch before he left. The watchmaker agreed but it was obvious right from the start that even though his body was there, his mind sure wasn't. Sometimes when his colleagues called to him to go out for some lunch during their break time he would jump a little as if rudely awakened from a dream, shake his head slightly then blink blearily at them. And the watch that he was making was turning out nothing like the watches he normally produced. The straps weren't as brightly polished, and the tiny bits of machinery that ticked diligently behind the scenes to keep the watch running weren't very well put together at all, at times stopping completely. As he began testing the watch's ergonomics, one could already tell his head was already deeply immersed in seating plans, wedding invite designs and templates, the menu and decorations.
Finally he finished up and brought the watch to his boss. The boss accepted the watch, examined it carefully with his eyepiece and frowned slightly. Then he handed it back to the watchmaker, smiling wryly as he spoke these words:
"Here's your watch back. This was to be my wedding gift to your son."

We carelessly live our lives, stitching together random pieces that may or may not fit properly like a patchwork of random colors and shapes. Sometimes right in that crucial moment we don't give our best. We don't tell ourselves we have to because it doesn't seem worth it at that point. But is anything ever not worth it?

Why don't you go home today and imagine you were that watchmaker. Before you go to sleep tonight tell yourself tomorrow morning you will change from the inside out, not just make an oath you know you will not be able to keep. Tell yourself tomorrow morning that today as I'm fitting every little screw or gear inside I want to make sure it fits just perfectly, just right, so my life runs like clockwork and my heart will always feel more like a muscle and less like a bone because I won't let it harden and I won't let it be broken. Because my life I myself am a single creation, a handmade DIY craft. And maybe that's why those things can cost so much. Because you are worth so much.

The Philosophy of Ants

RECENTLY I've been observing the way ants, our tiny little friends - or pests - and realized that they uphold, in their every movement and decision, a certain Ant Philosophy. And it's this philosophy of sorts that enables creatures seemingly small, seemingly powerless and puny to the point of insignificance, to come together, and work together. I guess if you wanted to be organized about it you could divide this philosophy into four factors.
The first factor: never give up. Supposing you try to block the path of an ant, say, by putting your finger in front of it. That ant will try all ways and means to either climb over, burrow through or circumnavigate your finger. It won't give up till it manages to get past the obstacle, even if you continuously adjust the position of your finger to stay in its way.
The second one: prepare for a rainy day. Throughout the summer ants are already busy preparing for the long, cold winter that still seems far off. Once summer begins, in fact, they will begin gathering up food to store for winter. That way, while other creatures have to hibernate throughout the season, ants will continue to enjoy life as per normal, just within the safe, warm haven of their nest.
Thirdly, anticipation. Throughout the winter itself the ants will be dreaming about the flax-golden summer, continuously reminding themselves to bear with their current, compromise freedom, because it would be over soon: soon, they would be back in the heat of summer daydreams mingling with sunlight. And the moment a single warm breeze blows a few brave souls will already be out there stretching their limbs and testing the temperature. Should it drop again, it's back inside the hole to wait for another opportunity to roam about again.
Lastly: put in all you've got. No explanation needed here.

Have foresight and labor for the future: do it with diligence and pride that you are putting in 120% and that someday you are going to look up at magnolia white clouds and realize it was all worth it.

Fountain

At times they looked like sequins, haphazardly sewn on so they fell off the moment the whole world gave a little jump at the sun's debut ray peeking shyly into the park.
At times they were kamikaze soldiers plummeting to their deaths as if they believed what they were doing actually carried a little weight in the world.
At times they are emotions, riding up and down a rainbow-kaleidoscope, hoping to dazzle when really, they had no audience.

Hesitation

SHOULD you head out now? Or should you sit and wait for the rain to pass? You know you tell yourself that you wouldn't be wasting any time but eventually, of course, you end up just watching the drops, wondering if by this time they were plummeting to the ground, stabbing into it vengefully, or merely scattering themselves across the thirsty, dry earth. You see the problem with waiting is you'll never know if the storm will subside in five minutes, or five hours or days. It's a calculated risk whether to go out there and brave the danger of taking an unintentional shower. And I keep hearing people tell me to wait out the storms, staying indoors or under shelter. And then every single time words along those lines settle upon my ears, waiting to be heard, I try to find a formula to work out when to wait and when to just do it. After all, the rains could get worse. But after hours of letting my thoughts mingle with the rain, I discovered a formula is not possible when you're talking about raindrops free enough to get to fall down from the sky when as yet nothing is above it.  

Nothing Is For Nothing

my shadow lingers
permanent on your
crisscrossed bedroom walls

Little Miss Princess

AN hour late means sixty minutes wasted of my life. 3600 seconds gone. I got less time nowadays to act like I've got time to spare so please spare me the torture of sitting here listening to half my world sing your praises when we both know you are made up of nothing but that custom-made blazer and skirt set you don with a savage abandon of pride.
And you totter over, unsteady on heels, you walk over in your perfectly fitting clothes and you speak words that are like an itch to my skin where they settle. Allergic reaction. Cussing is one side effect.

Workaholic

GUESS what? I'm still human. Even though I seem to work like a machine and always come up with good results all you see is the numbers. You don't care about the other ones you dismiss as unimportant. Number of hours of sleep per night. Number of skipped lunches or recess. Current tally estimates of how many different emotions I can feel in a day.
Don't tell me there's no other way because I know different.

An Attempt at Definition

The physical properties of carbon vary widely with the allotropic form. For example, diamond is highly transparent, while graphite is opaque and black. Diamond is among the hardest materials known, while graphite is soft enough to form a streak on paper (hence its name, from the Greek word "to write").

... the chemical basis of all known life.

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon?wasRedirected=true

Lie A Little More

SOMEONE showed me a book today, a really good one she was reading. The front cover had this lifelike illustration of a blue ribbon, the kind they glue onto the book spine for use as a bookmark that you'll never lose. I began telling her - and I can't explain why I did that - about when I was younger and used to like to finger and stroke those kinds of bookmarks or when I closed the book, do it gently and arrange the strip of fabric carefully so it wouldn't get bent out of shape and so even the threads sticking out on its frayed end would look pretty. At some point maybe the almost-spiritual, ritualistic stroking might have been recognized as a sign of autism - repititive motor motion. But I was oblivious I suppose. And every time I reached out to try to stroke a fake one, an illustration, I would sit and softly wonder why people had to try to trick people, why they lied and disappointed and were never as they seemed.
Today I asked that friend if it was real before reaching out to try for myself. Because after a while I guess I sort of started thinking all of them were all just make-believe, and not the fairytale ending variety.

Gray

LAST night I dreamt there was a place where music wasn't just lines and dots, dollars and cents, but feeling. The breath of a taste that lingers in the mouth, whether good or bad. But maybe that's just me being cynical. Maybe I'm only attempting to maintain a shred of hope when my world is going down this whirlpool, heading down this black hole into a strange new reality I'm not afraid to admit I am scared of. Even though our scientists work daily to discover new materials to help us build our clothes or bridges to new places we had not ventured before, we have sadly flown past that time when we yet knew we knew nothing. And really, these gray areas amass and gather, dark clouds on a humble old horizon just trying to keep up with the pace.

Same Difference

I called it bronze, but you made it gold.

Theory 4: Sun, Rise or Set

WE always seem to believe that the sun rises on us. We use it in our self-help books to boost out spirits and attempt to heal our hearts. But throughout all of this therapy for ourselves, we forgot one very major thing.
When the sun rises for one, it sets for another.

Sepia Footprints 5

IMAGES that stick in my mind's eye like band aids for wounds of old times and past tense. 

Five. A sky painted morning kaleidoscope-rainbow like the sun needed to grasp the world to hoist itself out of bed. A road stretching out towards it, yearning for the warmth of home.

Through the Glass

WE are all truly alone in this world, even with friends surrounding us. Because nobody can ever understand exactly what you've been through the way you have taken it in or rejected it. That makes you unique but it seems to place you in a class of your own, kind of like being in your own infinite glass tube, able to interact with friends through it but never quite being able to burst through. Makes you wonder if being unique is all that important. The consolation prizes are those moments when you know the glass barrier doesn't make a difference; you'll break it together.

A Letter

At the local post office there was a particular staff member whose job was to sort through mail with illegible or invalid addresses. This day he came across an envelope that read, in a black, shaky script: To God. 

He flipped it over and gently slit the letter open. Its contents read:

Dear God,
I am an 83-year-old pensioner. Yesterday my purse containing $100 got stolen and my next social security services check won't be coming till next month. My only two remaining friends will be coming over for a party this weekend. Without that $100, I won't be able to buy any food and throw a decent party for all of us. Please, God, help me. 

Without even finishing his sorting duties, the man began making a round about the post office showing his colleagues the letter he had just read. Each one of them, touched and sympathetic, dug deep into their pockets and came up with a couple of dollars each. Soon the total reached $96 and they mailed it to the old lady.

A few days later, another letter addressed to God came to the man. He called everyone over and they all eagerly crowded round to read over his shoulder. 

The letter was quite simple this time:

Dear God,
Thank you so much for helping me! Because of your generous help, I was able to have a wonderful time with my friends. However, there were $4 missing in your letter back. Must have been those thieving scoundrels at the post office. 

When it's a gift you've been given accept it. Say thank you politely, just like a child. By this time maybe you have a shell of makeup you wear like a mask, one you grew yourself from experience to keep yourself from hurt. When you can anticipate the future, be your prediction right or wrong, where's the point in even getting there in the end?

It's A Girl/Guy Thing

DEBATE at hand: talking and hearing

Girl: Guys don't ever listen. 
Guy: Girls only keep repeating themselves. What's there to hear?
Girl: Girls only repeat themselves because guys don't listen.  

When We Played

I was telling him all about the complexities of trickery, the day's history of fun, and suddenly he burst out with the words:

"Haven't you grown out of this yet?"

No, actually, Papa. We haven't. We haven't and we shouldn't and we can't, because much as sometimes we do want to feel grown up, much as sometimes we girls want to dress up in our mothers clothes and we boys want to pick fights and act macho, we're still just kids. We are in a world where some of us may be forced to grow up fast, but maybe, on this one day when we can come together and stumble around foolishly, playing those 'immature' games with our fellow 'immature' friends, we only really wanted to be naive again, get to believe someone with no quick moment of hesitation, of doubt and mistrust. Maybe we really just want to be fooled, to be conned, and to do it in return, because in this world there are more things than just protecting yourself and striking out at others - whether intentional or not. There's also giving and taking, gaining and losing and above all, forgetting about the repercussions we might have to face the next day as a result of our one day of fun, forgetting for a moment about what could happen and what might be the result of that. Because in the games that children play, on slides and swings and not in office blocks or even diamond rings, we don't consider or discriminate. In the games that children play, we play.

Things To Do Before You Die 6

CALCULATE the value of the unknown... but not in algebra.

Barriers

IN recent months I believe my parents have been considering what's going to happen when they die. This may seem like morbid subject matter for any casual conversation in a car but I suppose with my family dying isn't something to be afraid of. I mean we're not exactly gonna enthuse about dying and gladly throw ourselves at death but we accept that it is going to happen one day to all of us, be it sooner or later.
My mum started cracking this joke about how she wanted her ashes to be spread over this shopping market near our house which is essentially her second home. She knows every shortcut and every sale and best deal there, making her almost necessary for any visit my family is planning to pay to the place. Of course that also makes it her 'place to go'. No matter what you need her solution will inevitably be there.
At the same time she wants the ashes of her favrorite dog, Haydn, to be scattered along with her. She does believe in reincarnation but she claims that she would like to go shopping forever.
My dad was a little more philosophical. He told us to go somewhere, anywhere, and release his ashes on the wind so he would always remain a free spirit. Of course he probably just wants to be 'one' with the nature that he has helped nurture in that forest of a garden he just manages to keep at bay from invading our house.

Me?
I've learnt that the more you have, the more you have to lose, the more you'll have to let go of someday. But does that mean we should all build a mile-high wall around ourselves? Pretend not to care, feign ignorance and nonchalance at every last hand the world deals us?
I've tried that once. But something I realized when I did was that when I was hiding everything and trying to become the shadow of a mask, I still cared. Cared enough to sense what I was doing to the people around me and to myself. Closing up was never the solution.

At this point, wouldn't you be able to stop reading here, find a mirror and tell yourself that surely you can care about a great many things, today?

Breadcrumbs

I slap the board hard trying to dislodge every last crumb of bread from its surface, shaking the tiny forsaken morsels into the slowly yellowing old grass below. Although she would never approve of simply giving food away to the sparrows that come to our garden every time we slice our own bread for a quick lunch, I'm glad to say my mum does have a heart big enough to allow them to at least get something out of what we now find insignificant.
It's days like these that I watch their beady little black eyes, the quick movements of their heads from side to side upon landing cautiously on the ground to get a close up of where exactly the food was today. It's days like these that I wonder what I did that allowed me to live a life in which I am the giver and not the one crouching in the bruising darkness awaiting the kindness of another which is too often, I find, mistaken or something more along the lines of pity.
She may find my antics foolish when I do something like sneak out an entire hunk of bread and go out into the garden to tear it quickly into pieces small enough for their tiny beaks to grab ahold of with ease. But there is a thin line and it's still being defined, between foolishness and a sort of peaceful wisdom.

April Fools

You've got to be kidding me.

Size Does Matter

STUDIES have determined that the size of your plate determines the size of your appetite. If you have little food but a plate small enough to be full once that little amount of food has been put on it, you'll feel satisfied at the end of it because you finished an entire plate. The human perception of relativity should come into play to prevent that misconception really, but honestly, sometimes it's better just to not know.

Don't keep asking for more. Beg for enough then be satisfied. There are people out there who don't even dare to hold out their plates for their share of the world.

Crystalline

ALWAYS heard them tell me to call my glass half full and not half empty.

What if your glass isn't even half full?
Then be glad you've got any water at all.

What if your glass doesn't have any water in it?
Then be glad that you have a glass at all.

And what if you don't even have a glass?
Well then be glad that you have been gifted a duty, a duty to yourself, for yourself: to go out there and get a glass for yourself!

The March: of Rain and Reminisce

HEAD bent down, forced down, she heads out into the war of the rain versus the humans, the straggling, soaked-to-the-bones souls caught in the sudden downpour. At first she attempts to wipe the tentative few drops away. Then she realizes her foolishness; there will only be another 100 for every 10 she managed to wipe away.
And halfway down the path she stops beneath a tree which offers her some degree of shelter from the pelter even though it mean the occasional collated droplet tended to hit the top of her head with an almost resounding sound in the silence beneath the leaves of that tree. All around everything is loud and violent and yet vibrant, full of sound and life and all that other good stuff. She takes a breather, sensing a slight pause, a small period when the storm seems to grow fickle of its pouring and raging, and relent a little. But she doubted she would be able to wait it out. And besides, there was something so deliciously forbidden and wild to feeling the drops raining down her arms and her hair gradually getting so soaked she could practically wring it out. With a flourish she tore off her scrunchie, letting the curly locks dangle appeasingly around her ears. And she sets off again, into the rain. With a smile on her face and a chuckle petering down the air, a church bell rung amateurly just a little off rhythm, yet tri-tone and lilting.
Later she slings her bag to the flow and realizes she is almost dripping water. She wonders if she should take a picture of her exhausted face now, or if her shaking limbs would make it all blurry. Normally cameras would be a taboo but now it was different. Suddenly she was a portrait, measuring 5"6 by happy by water.

This is what they meant by that old word.

Emancipation.

Titillate

played the strings of my heart like it were a harp
that doesn't make you an angel

War

WHY should the little people have to suffer for what they wanted?

Details In The Fabric

Calm down
Deep breaths
And get yourself dressed
Instead of running around
And pulling all your threads
And breaking yourself up

If it's a broken part, replace it
If it's a broken arm then brace it
If it's a broken heart then face it

And hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way

Hold your own
Know your own name
And go your own way
And everything will be fine

Hang on
Help is on the way
And stay strong
I'm doing everything

Hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way

Hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way

And everything
Everything, it will be fine
Everything

All the details in the fabric?
Are the things that make you panic?
Are your thoughts results of static cling?

Are the things that make you blow?
Hell, no reason, go on and scream
If you're shocked it's just the fault
Of faulty manufacturing

Everything will be fine
Everything in no time at all
Everything

Hold your own
Know your name
Go your own way

Hold your own
(Are the details in the fabric?)
Know your name
(Are the things that make you panic?)
Go your own way
(Are your thoughts results of static cling?)

Hold your own
(Are the details in the fabric?)
Know your name
(Are the things that make you panic?)
Go your own way
(Is it Mother Nature's sewing machine?)

Hold your own
(Are the things that make you blow?)
Know your name
(Hell, no reason, go on and scream)
Go your own way
(You're shocked it's just the fault of faulty manufacturing)

Everything it will be fine
Everything in no time at all
Hearts will hold

- Jason Mraz and James Morrison

More Than Words

LET the walking do the talking.

The Third: Pressure

SIMPLY force over area? Physicists must have calculated it wrongly. At times it does not divide, nor add or subtract; it multiplies into higher orders and forces your head down when all the others say is to hold your chin up.
And yet it is this pressure that forces them together. Particle theory. They are forced, pressurized closer together, some forced to bond and rely upon others they still have not fully learned to trust yet.

Clear

TODAY I took off my glasses and marvelled at the ephemeral existence of the spaces, and not the words, that nobody will ever read.

Ends Meet

The inevitable end of human life is death.
The inevitable end of human death is life.

Narrow

OH please. I think I've grown enough to know from experience that water only ever flows in one direction. It follows the pioneers leading the rest and never stops to take a look at the other places it could go.

All Around

Tell me, because I think I forgot the difference when your name rankled or echoes in my mind.

Pinkies

GOT a papercut today, on my pinky finger. Almost wanted to say sorry, though I didn't know to who. You make promises with pinky fingers. I don't want to know what you break them with.

Did I Get It Right, or You All Wrong?

rainy day call
you changed your number
but didn't tell me

The Old Attic

glances
up from the page
glasses clinging on for dear life
off the cliff of her nose

of course,
miscomprehension
lack of comprehension

of course,
teasing and laughter
that suddenly stops
she couldn't actually remember
the words anymore

of course,
a strange longing to become the
Mother
take her little grown up child
by the hand, nice and
tight and
warm

and drag her through a labyrinth
of the castle in the kingdom
of far away words

Poetry In Motion

these volumes,
these
ancient rhymes
chants and
pastimes

whisper
their words

secrets for everyone to
hear
if they would only
listen

Grip

THE little things that surround us and make us only seem to begin really nattering when they're not there anymore.
Like you don't thank the humble light bulb for staying on throughout the day until it blows because it can take the task no more. Then you curse at it for making you have to get out the ladder and dig out a new one before removing it and throwing it disgracingly into the trash.
Like you don't whisper sorry to your dinner plate when your knife finally and painfully scrapes across its much scarred surface once you get through that tough piece of meat you've been sawing at. Then you grimace or laugh with your family at the screeching, fingers on blackboard sound it makes.
Like you don't pat your computer on its overheated back for staying working for hours on end while you rush out your geography assignment the day before its due. You only use profanities and obscenities nobody wants to hear on it, hurling abuse at it for crashing when really, even machines have limits.

Even if humans try to rush through all there is to be done in life, they will never win a race like this. Once you finish your homework, and you have hours to go before your conscience can safely call it a productive, decent day (or night), you start pulling out your textbook to do some extra work, get ahead a little while you've got some time to spare. And you give so much you don't even realize you no longer have anything to give. Nothing left to give of your childhood.

Childhood?

Yes, such a thing does still exist in the world.

Things To Do Before You Die 5

WATCH the waves crest and fall - simplicity, because the world remembers how it used to love.

Things To Do Before You Die 4

LISTEN to the sound of children laughing in the playground as they run around in circles trying to chase their shadows and the light that holds even those back.

Sepia Footprints 4

IMAGES that stick in my mind's eye like band aids for wounds of old times and past tense. 

Four. A rainbow of all the seven colors they always told me were there for me to find myself. Like a bridge of some brand of light that seemed almost afraid of fading too fast, it clings on to the edge of existence and begins to resemble, in the eyes of a carbon atom watching so intently it would seem her life depended on the fragile thing, a bridge not of light, but of life and death and everything in between. It came from over the mountains behind which the sun hid the previous night. It came from all sorts of places and the dreams of people who might well wake into nightmares but believe, even just for a moment, that they should enjoy this time, of peace.

Peripheral Vision

THE aim of the exercise, this new coach - a voice actor currently working for Cartoon Network - said, was to help us focus.
Here's what you do:
Pair up with someone in the group you aren't too familiar with and stand face to face with her. Between the two of you pick someone to begin moving (any part of his or her body) very slowly, so slowly that you'll only notice movement after say, 2-3 seconds. In the meantime both of you must hold a gaze, but the other person must detect which part of her partner's body is moving and mirror that.

Consider that peripheral vision is a powerful tool. Not only must you look straight through your eyes, towards the front, but you must also focus on those little things sitting on the sidelines and bleachers, awaiting the fateful moment when a single pair of eyes - they will
not ask much - will land upon them and stay there and whisper somehow, without any words, that they are important and loved and enjoyed, regardless of their size or looks.
Perhaps if we all took a step back and eyed the entire world instead of only what we wanted, we would really focus and see what was really important.

Memory

AMAZING. It seems almost amazing how one thing can encompass so much, so much so that she is afraid of forgetting.

Sense

IT perhaps started out as a random statement.
We have eyes but do not see.
We have ears but do not listen.
We have minds but do not think.
We have hearts but do not feel.
We have love but do not live.

The Rules of Umbrella-Sharing

HE carries it, wrapping his arm around her offering her maximum protection from the cold daggers dropped carelessly from the sky to strike all the unfortunate souls below, without discrimination or bias. She grudgingly has agreed but only because of the Rule for sharing an umbrella - the taller one does it.
He sees her disgruntlement and steps and chuckles, proffering a small, sad but somehow proud smile. He accompanies the tiny action with a few tinier words:
Someday you'll get to carry the umbrella.

Pumps

HOW is it a couple extra inches on the bottom of their feet makes them feel tall enough to think they're all grown up?

For All Those Who

AFTER listening to the story, told by some gossiper in the seat in front of me, of a girl and a boy who I did not know, I have only one thing to say, one thing to comment to their story.
Please, oh please, realize that twenty-one is only two years older than nineteen.

Tears From Water

SOME rainy days I find myself gazing out the car window letting my daydreams mingle with the puddles on the ground and wonder if anybody would notice and/or care whether the streams running down my face were really rain at all.

Slow Dance

Have you ever watched kids
On a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain
Slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly' s erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?

You better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Do you run through each day
On the fly?
When you ask How are you?
Do you hear the reply?

When the day is done
Do you lie in your bed
With the next hundred chores
Running through your head?

You'd better slow down
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Ever told your child,
We'll do it tomorrow?
And in your haste,
Not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch,
Let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time
To call and say,'Hi'

You'd better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift.....
Thrown away.

Life is not a race.
Do take it slower
Hear the music
Before the song is over.

- someone out there blessed with cancer

Ear-Whispered Words of a Friend

Looks like this is a day for violating rules, huh?

Keep Coming Back For More

CHASING the tides like they were chariots of her Majesty, the underwater queen, and I longed to join them in number, hush up the world as I rushed forward to kiss the feet of her brother beach, occasionally rattlesnake-hissing as the particles of my barely contained anger at humans for impurifying my mistress with their filth, add in their on kind of sound to the occasion.
Standing knee-deep in the waters and ignoring my sopping shorts, I let the small currents toss and squabble over my bare legs. Unconcsciously, as the hours hobble on, I make a slow way up the beach again, feet still submerged but the water level dropping with each pulled-out-of-the-sand step I took. Finally I reach the point where only the white crests of foam stretch to lick your toes, tintillating you with the last breaths of the sea, the mother.
It is there that I pause, pesky sand particles clutching to my wet legs and feet. I wait for the last tide to wash over my feet again, removing all the tiny parasites. Of course as soon as I take a step closer to the vast body of water, stretching to meet the boats waiting, as if in ambush, on the horizon, I am drawn back into her and end up back in her outskirts, thirsting for the feel of her loving hands clasping against me, gentle and sometimes abrasive, stronger and ephemerally hotheaded, but always managing to hold me in a vise, thick and strong.
It is this day that I look at the sea and stare something unpredictable and beautiful in the eye without flinching and without backing off. It is this day that I infiltrated the soil beyond sight with my toes, pushing deeper and deeper in to see if I could maybe bury my fears. It is this day that I held the water and felt and knew and saw that nothing else in the world would ever feel the same.

Just Like Riding A Bicycle

EYEING the contraption, I shake my head slowly, side to side, even as I feel my self-control slipping away, evaporating into the humid air. I inform them, straight out, that there was no freaking way they were getting me onto the bike.
Five minutes later, I'm sitting on a tandem bike behind the unfortunate soul who has been tasked to be my training wheels. A compromise had been reached. I ride for one hour - therapy against my phobia of bikes, they called it - and they would call it off and let me go back to sitting and moping around back at the bench we'd occupied/invaded.
Only of course, riding is not that simple. At least not for me. Do you have any idea how much courage it takes to lift both feet off the ground entrust your entire body onto two wheels whose width can't be much more than that of your thumbnail?
The big philosophy of bike-riding, as they told me, was that you had to let go. Put one foot on the pedal, press down for your first step then lift up the other foot and 'just' keep the momentum going. Just. As if it was an entirely natural process.
After maybe half an hour of attempting to get me to glue my feet to the pedals, they decided on a second course of action.
They would ride ahead and stop at every pit stop to wait for me. But I would have to ride there myself.
I have to admit that at some times coming down and going up slopes, turning corners and swerving around other bikers, my heart dropped into my stomach and seemed to sit there being digested by the pure fear that slammed itself into my brain - you're going to lose balance. You're going to fall and hurt yourself badly and they'll be too far away to hear so you'll just sit here and depreciate, or something.
I just kept pedalling, even though the sun was stinging my skin tomato-red and my sweat mingled with black oil stains off the pedals and wires.
With the wind on my face and my fear out back, I was beginning to believe I could fly.

Lunch

THE soup or the bread?
The soup, but only if its consistency is thick, rich, and its temperature toasty warm.
The bread, but only if it is still crisp on the outside and soft on the inside.
The mind need be fresh and new as well to make decisions.

Which Would You Like To Hear First?

THE bad news is that time flies. The good news is that you're the pilot.

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
who wrote "Don't be a ninny"
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of "Irony"
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!"
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature"
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

- Billy Collins

Cut Short

SIX words of something more
Scribbled upon a broken door

For Sale: Baby's Shoes, Never Worn.

The Times

WHAT IS LIFE?
Some people say that life's a race. Everybody has their eyes on their prize, their ulimate goal of a finish line somewhere in paradise. And these people will spend their lives put of breath, puffing and panting but pushing on towards a place they will find impossible to reach.
Some people say that life's a journey. As soon as you arrive here in this big, big world you will start this journey. And some people will travel the world and the seven seas witnessing every mountain and every molehill, losing their roots and adapting wings on their tired and shaking arms. And some people will remain gazing up at a tiny patch of sky that they at least can call their own, as they are imprisoned by the manacles that ground them and are their life's foundation.
Some people say that life's a dream. An episode of a summer fantasy lost amongst the shadows of trees and someone's expensive suit collection somewhere, where everything that happens won't make a difference because well, it never really happened.
And some people say that life's a story. And you're the Inkweaver who will put down those threads and tales that come together and amass and form this amazing, living-breathing YOU.
Some people write their tragedies and triumphs, their tears of joy mixing with their sweat and various contemplations of suicides and the tiny golden moments they want and need to keep locked up in a glass jar to be stored, lock and key, within the decomposing cabinet of the door to memory lane. Some people write about how many times they have had the limelight - or was it the gaze of all the green-eyed monsters ambushing in the audience - splashed upon themselves like rich robes in old cotton; and their story would be written in squiggly, shaky handwriting they hoped no one could really decipher. Some people live a boring life, day in and day out, sun rise and sun set. Some people hear that life is a stage and end up playing so many different roles even when the camera's not even rolling anymore. Everyone trying to be in the entertainment industry so pretty soon there'll be no audience, just a bunch of monkeys on stage dancing.
It's your story to write; it's your words that will keep you and free you.

Dismissal

1.20 p.m.,
And it snows dead snowflakes of
Yellowed raintree leaves

Dancer, oh Dancer

ODE to the dancer

your tutu skirt
is swimming
amongst currents and currants
and around my head
and your sashays
and your smiles
are spinning away
and I need you to stop now
because
this has gone on long enough
I need you to stop now
because
you make my world rotate
primary axis
of evolutionary delight
and you make me
feel
yeah you make me
feel
you make me

Doors

SAW a little girl playing with the glass swing doors, her mother occasionally calling her back to the table for another mouthful of fast-turning cold food. People wait patiently outside while she has her fun to come in. There's a big old sign reading 'Push' only of course she can't read yet. She can't even force the doors open wide enough for her tiny frame to pass through at this age. Anyway she's pulling in the wrong direction, pulling it towards herself and yanking rather desperately, putting the whole of her rather meager weight into the effort, basically hanging off the metal hook where her hands have planted themselves. But it won't budge and as people come in pulling the door towards themselves, she's amazed that it won't work for her. Steps to take would be to pull, not push. That's what they did, right?

SEE so many doors so much that after a while maybe I get sick of it. I don't want to read te big old sign with instructions on the door, telling me what to do and how to do it. I want it fast and furious and oh so perfect. I want the doors to swing open for me without me having to yank or shove or stick my foot into the closing gap of that mouth of a doorway to the point where I hurt myself just trying to maneuver through and past. Into what's behind the door.

Smile and get up and pass by. Gently wait, a patient mother almost, for her to let me through, then slowly push the door away from me. Pushing doesn't make it go any further away. Pushing yourself to do more is in fact equivalent to pulling the door towards you. Only tired peope trying to go back through the door ever pull it towards them instead of pushing themselves forward to reach. They think they are entering something new but really it's just something, some kind of memory they left behind somewhere while running one day. They might find it in the lost and found section though. The dusty little place in the back of their minds where a little child lurks and pretends to be just like all these people who pass her by and know what to do.

Words rising to my mouth a lot. I wanted to tell her so much about beauty and benevolence, and some things I thought were as close to a definition of beauty and ugly, as I had realized so far. I wanted to whisper in her ear all the things she was going to have to look in the eye and laugh and scorn at, even if at home later she cried. I wanted to tell her that she would know so
much someday, someday very soon, if she would just work out how to open that door.

One LOVE. Live it.

SOMETIMES the title says it all.

Crossings

SOME substances will react together when they're exposed to heat. Some light, some electricity.
Friends will sometimes become friends when they're put to the test. When someone has to give more and trust the other and the other has to trust that someone to find it in herself, to be brave enough to care enough.
Friends will sometimes become friends in a sudden revelation, a blinding light truth that eases that burdens off their shoulders and humbly puts it upon his own.
Friends will sometimes become more than just friends in a bolt of something powerful, something more than them, that courses through their veins and seems to beat their hearts from that moment on.

Unfair

MAYBE you would then ask a question.

What if it wasn't all that equal?
If you cared enough... You wouldn't care.

But sometimes you are left to crumble by yourself and nobody comes and drags you out into the blinding sunlight that you miss so dearly because you realize then that you have not seen it in days. It's what happens.

Coming

UNION. Meeting halfway. Two opposites of a single jigsaw puzzle erotically coming together, drawn like magnets, opposite poles thirsting for the other's beautiful, beautiful face.

Can you meet me halfway
Right at the borderline is where
I'm gonna wait for you
I'll be looking out
Night and day
My heart to the limit
And this is where I stay

Voted most beautiful word in the world? Mother.

It is beautiful when two people come together and make something out of nothing. Create love out of like. Create life out of love. Create love out of life.

GainGive

CHEMISTRY. Ionic bonding.
Two atoms that aren't stable because they haven't got enough electrons in their outermost shells have to give and take electrons from each other in order to both achieve stability.
They have to cooperate. They have to have a mutual exchange.
When an atom loses an electron, the charge will increase by one.
Apparently it gains when it gives away.
When an atom accepts an electron, the charge will decrease by one.
Apparently it loses when it takes.
But that will let it give to another atom someday somewhere.

Lots of people can't seem to understand this is chemistry class. They keep making the same mistake and seem to keep thinking that when the atom loses electrons, it really loses out.
I hope this helps, guys.

Annual

THIS is one of those many times of the year to think about 'this time last year', 'this time next year'.
Occasionally I wish that we would reflect on what we've done, what we have been doing and what we are going to do, more often. If we only ever sit around and discuss these things say every time we're bored after pigging out on good food for whatever festival or event it happens to be, then how can we ever really do all those things we say we're going to do?
Somehow we need to be motivated more constantly to keep going and keep testing and asking and doubting ourselves.

If Tomorrow Never Came

29th February comes once in every four years.
I imagined today if the days were like a land you travel through, a land of time. Would the day after 28th February drop off into nothing, or would it be more like a gentle continuation, perhaps even completely unperturbed, into the 1st of March?
If tomorrow never came and I never woke up after I go to sleep tonight, would I regret? Would I even get the chance to taste that white panic of pain, the bitter taste at the back of my mouth and my eyes, telling me that I had been stupid, so stupid, to een think so naively for so long?

If tomorrow never came would it all have been for nothing? Every bead of perspiration I have sweated, every tear that has ever welled up in my eyes, every drop of blood that came leaking out of my heart when all those people came and stomped all over it?

For nothing?
Or for me?

Dictatorship

TIME has a curious way of running long distance. Most of the time they'll tell you right before a marathon (the time when you bounce on the balls of your feet chock-full of energy, so ready) to keep your pace steady so you get a momentum going and you follow it. But time seems to have missed that part of the briefing. And if you decided that you wanna finish this thing before it you are going to have one hell of a race.
Just when you begin to settle into a comfortable momentum, your legs pumping regularly and strong it will change its own rhythm. It will speed up and even as it lengthens the distance between you two it will be mocking you, mocking that you are only human and can't do this, can't do that. And you will follow.
Just when you begin to catch up and sprint, begin to get red-faced and breathless, it will slow down again and you will once again have no choice but to follow because this is going to be - literally and metaphorically - the race of a lifetime, and if you speed now later on you will collapse and you will give in to your aching, shaking limbs.
It is the ultimate dictator and all around the world there are so many people racing against time to save a life in a hospital, to make it to work on time, to finish up that final report. And they think they're racing time but they're not. They will always be following it, because time dictates and you will follow.

Intentions (cont'd) Execution

SLIGHT promises to go out there.

From this moment
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand.

And I shall seize the opportunity to let my voice ring proud amongst the crowd even if no one but me should hear it amongst the uncaring, nonchalant daily bustle surrounding and obscuring their ears from this wondrous sound of truth, obscuring their faces from this morning's first rays of sunlight.

Moving On, and Past

I squeeze my eyes tight and disciplined, scrunched up like the wrinkles on his face bunching up those times he laughed at party-told, politically incorrect jokes; tight like the buttonholes on his shirt, the one he was wearing when warmth waned, the sky-blue one that reminisced of his next home - a place he always liked to call Heaven.  

Sepia Footprints 3

IMAGES that stick in my mind's eye like band aids for wounds of old times and past tense. 

Three. A tree, casually expanded from an accidental puddle, condensations off a cup's edge, corroding the table and warming itself. 
It seems to waver in the light and in the winds untied, unbound, and somehow it all seems so worthless that something so pure and simple and impossible should exist without anybody recognizing how beautiful it was.  

Sepia Footprints 2

IMAGES that stick in my mind's eye like band aids for wounds of old times and past tense. 

Two. A juicy red heart punctured through by modern Cupid's arrow, a silver rod with a pointy, heart-shaped tip, slim and stylish and shiny-attractive-to-ravens. And the arrow has been bent when it comes out on the other side. 
Our hearts were getting harder and getting blood from them, love from them, was like begging from a stone. And now even when that lovely fluttery feeling in the pits of our stomachs called love is bestowed onto our doorsteps where it slouches and patiently waits out the night of your ignorance to the sound of it knocking. Knock-knocking on the door punctured in your heart. 

Sepia Footprints 1

IMAGES that stick in my mind's eye like band aids for wounds of old times and past tense. 

One. A four-leaf clover, a rare joy sought by so many, acquired by so few. Only with a leaf fallen off again, turning it back into a normal, little weed. 
How they used to croon and drool words, words of greedy passion for that thing they called luck. For that abstract little golden vial of something that they thought a couple of leaves could encompass or at the very least represent, in order to reassure them, a mother hen clucking foolishly to her chicks that everything would be okay if they stood hidden under her wing out of sight of the predator circling overhead. 

Things to Do Before You Die 3

MAKE up your own language that only you can really understand.

The Point

ZIPPING around from point A to Z means
records
admiration
pride
And it means I forget so much
I forget that
A and Z were always just points on an infinite line.

Things To Do Before You Die 2

PASS the torch but keep the flame.

Projection

A lot of times these days when I'm heading out in the evening and I look up at the sky, I either see stars or I don't.
I look because I'm looking for those three stars in a row. Orion's Belt.
Most of the time there are a couple other ones up there but I can't see the supposed billions of stars they say there are. And sometimes, like tonight, I catch sight of this really bright spark. It looks to be the one behind that old nursery rhyme line. Like a diamond in the sky. Only when I keep watching it's gentle, almost pulsating twinkling, I realize it's moving and that it's only some plane, a late night flight heading somewhere else.

Dark

I think I've had a similar post on nictophobia before.
I just remembered one thing my Mama told me before, about the dark.
Don't be afraid of what you can't see; it's what you can that should scare you.

My Papa's Garden

7 P.M., and I stepped out of the shower with damp hair and a light body for once. Something then possessed this city girl to step outside into the seeming wilderness of the garden my Papa tends with an enthusiasm approaching ecstasy.
He was watering the plants and asked me if I wanted to try. His voice is light and casual, deep and reassuring, but something within it, a kind of straining longing, tells me that he wants me to say yes. I had homework to do and not a lot of time to do it in, but once again, (the same) something stayed my feet and I drifted towards him thinking to myself that I would wet a few plants, he would get mad at me for not doing it well and it'd be all done. Finished.
He did come close to yelling at me at times. He paid attention to detail a lot and whenever I missed out a couple tiny patches of grass he'd insist I come back and water them. He told me how important even the small things were, and not to judge them by their size.
Of course I got pretty pettily upset, since really, he was making me get my hands all muddy and my new pyjamas all wet. And the main thing I enjoyed about watering the plants during his many hours and days away at work was watching the droplets spray downwards when the hose was spraying them not as one shooting length but as a sort of mist. I would aim the hose high in the air and watch them scatter, heading towards their own unknown destination seeping through the hardness of the thirsty soil.
He was getting on in age and also yelled at me when the ground had absorbed the water I'd just sprayed it with and he couldn't remember that I'd already done that part.
Throughout all the berating though, I kept a calm mind and aimed the hose where he wanted me to.
Later we did the back garden and while unplugging this new hose I scraped my hand against the cement wall. I was thinking how he didn't even care, but then I realized that once again, I hadn't let out a sound, an alack of pain. I couldn't blame him.
He loved his garden and was even then rolling up the hose carefully, storing it away.
I sank back on my feet until he came to wash my muddy shoes using those big strong hands that he first cleansed of mud and dirt.
And I knew he kept a special place for me in the garden of his heart. I wanted to tell him I had just realized I'd always wanted to be like him and I'd just realized that - only he was away so much I had forgotten what he was.
I wanted to tell him I wanted to call him Papa again, and I wanted to hug him and disappear in the folds of his sweaty shirt like always.
But I didn't, and just sat there looking at my Papa, man of the soil and of the secret heart.