tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7497351673351896082024-03-12T18:53:35.023-07:00some pixie dustsome_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-19565439411479989222007-07-12T09:01:00.001-07:002007-07-12T09:01:51.505-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">it's wonderful how nostalgia, when done right, can draw us to recall the past with tender undertones and eventually inspire us to stash away certain periods of our lives with calm hearts and clear minds. the fondest of memories, we could choose to have only those. i choose to keep only those with you.</span>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-18736078241406411132007-07-08T09:07:00.000-07:002007-07-08T09:14:17.287-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">the rains have just fizzled out tonight but the cold, damp air remains...enough motive to lament the unavailability of someone to snuggle up with. on another day, self-pity and loneliness would have been recurrent emotions, but today, i'm weirdly doing alright, quite blissful in fact. all's well. and i'm scaling the heights of the world again.</span>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-88933623792769637332007-07-03T06:46:00.001-07:002007-07-03T06:46:41.394-07:00<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-style: italic;">today, I am solitary as well, relinquishing company for the calmness of thought and heart, Fiona Apple singing in the background how it costs too much to love . . .</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-52946427519271416192007-07-03T06:42:00.001-07:002007-07-03T06:43:55.344-07:00Chipped<p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">Now, as I gaze upon myself, I realize that every moment, I’ve been chipping away at my heart.</p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"> Where it enclosed you from all around, impermeable, I’ve gouged sections therefrom. Each piece I peel off yields a corresponding yowl in my being, and a gaping vacuum in time’s interlocking hands. This I bear with the might of the weak, the optimism of one who lacks foresight, yet with the authority of a tyrant’s obstinate heart: for this, because this is, I love you more. Nothing could be simpler. It is the earth upon which <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Euclid</st1:city></st1:place>’s axioms brace their feet. It is the wind that scares away the ghosts feeding off the green of leaves.<br /></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><br />When all this is done, and calm reigns again, our hands would have made sense of time’s brittleness. Our eyes would have regained the clarity once, now, ransomed by distance’s irreverence to love.</p>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-38154638853179503652007-07-02T08:54:00.001-07:002007-07-02T09:08:09.574-07:00solitude<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Roki0UaPNrI/AAAAAAAAABM/TAZV84o9W2k/s1600-h/solitude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Roki0UaPNrI/AAAAAAAAABM/TAZV84o9W2k/s320/solitude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082631936691615410" border="0" /></a><br />i never imagined that i would live without anticipation, without the exhilaration that comes from living, for something. living for something. prophesies mock me with the insides of my optimism, hollow, helpless.i see, and detest my feet. i walk, and abhor my eyes. to learn to become the sun, to be, simply, just by being a routine. to bathe the world in light, without feeling.<br /><br />i am my friend. i am my emptiness.<br /><br />my footsteps are graveyards for smiles, for meaning, for warmth. these slide off of me, after having risen to my throat or my eyes and finding no one there to juggle them with. you won't believe how solitary i've become. asking no questions, giving no answers. dreaming, but only in reminiscence. some days, i neglect to bring myself wherever i may go. sometimes i leave myself on my bed, curled up with an immaterial grime.<br /><br />and when i come home, i tell myself of the graveyards, of the sun and the darkness outside, of words and thoughts divorced, and in general, of the immitigable flatness of solitude. and i would shiver and toss while i listen, wondering which of me would outlive the other, which of me would yield to the wind and become meaningless altogether.some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-87652506263909517052007-04-04T05:36:00.000-07:002007-04-04T05:44:45.953-07:00Think about this...<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">In a time of constant transformation, beatitude is the joy that comes with belief, with certainty. The beatific bathe in almighty love, wear smug grins and play their harps and acoustic guitars. Safe in their cocoon from the storms of the metamorphosis, the blessed give thanks for their unchangingness and ignore the leg irons biting into their ankles. It's eternal bliss, but nix nix, you can keep that jailhouse cell. The Beats and their Generations were wrong. Beatitude is the prisoner's surrender to his chains.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Happiness, now that's something else. Happiness is human, not divine, and the pursuit of happiness is what we might call love. This love, earthly love, is a truce between the metamorphs, a temporary agreement not to shape-shift while kissing or holding hands. Love is a beach towel spread over sifting sands. Love is intimate democracy, a compact that insists on renewals, and you can be voted out overnight, however big your majority. It's fragile, precarious, and it's all we can get without selling our souls to one party or the other. It's what we can have while remaining free. This is what Vina Aspara meant when she spoke of a love without trust. All treaties can be broken, all promises end up as lies. Sign nothing, make no promises. Make a provisional reconciliation, a fragile peace. If you're lucky, it might last five days; or fifty years</span>."<br /><br /> - Salman Rushdie in "The Ground Beneath Her Feet"some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-92197463440759756892007-04-02T08:56:00.000-07:002007-04-04T05:35:45.979-07:00Your Silence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/RhObmp9FaMI/AAAAAAAAAA8/knCwCrlXaww/s1600-h/silence.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/RhObmp9FaMI/AAAAAAAAAA8/knCwCrlXaww/s200/silence.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049550695611852994" border="0" /></a><br />In your silence, during<br /><div><div><div><div>your silence, i am a man alone<br />with no memory, frail<br />like a browned leaf falling.<br /><br />No sun and nothing to see,<br />for mountains of sadness<br />are shoveled on me. No sound,<br />no ears; they're tuned to the sob<br />that knows inexistent hands<br />will pat it down at the first instance.<br /><br />Your silence is the crisp blue flame<br />licking your gift of forgetting,<br />my involuntary blinks, our night sky<br />of deafness to everything but our voices.<br /><br />I am the distance, spanning the highways<br />of this, your silence. A hoax, a myth,<br />an illusion, glimpsed momentarily<br />and gone the moment<br />you snap yourself back<br />to the snaking precipice ahead.<br /><br />Coldness is this itch on my skin,<br />longing for the warm caress of the ocean.<br /><br />Breathe unto me<br />the faint whisper of your exhale<br />that i may live, dream and feel<br />this, in this, emptiness filled by my being.<br />For color. For skies. For joy.</div></div></div></div>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-86251580118402979702007-03-31T19:55:00.000-07:002007-03-31T20:37:09.632-07:00the drowning man<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Rg8o2aXPYvI/AAAAAAAAAAM/p2Yqfd5gLdc/s1600-h/waves.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Rg8o2aXPYvI/AAAAAAAAAAM/p2Yqfd5gLdc/s200/waves.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048298622560461554" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">30 March 2007<o:p><br /><br /></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">“The best in our natures is drowning in the worst.”<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>-<span style=""> </span>Salman Rushdie<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p><br />In clutching the drowning man, I have drowned myself too.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>I have swallowed heaps of salty water -<span style=""> </span>tasted its saline taste and declared it sweet; felt it course my parched throat and claimed it quenched my thirst; held on to the drowning man and deemed each momentary surge to the surface of the sea as sufficient gasps for air, blips of life I blindingly saw as LIFE as it should be.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>I guess there really was intent to save me, with as much strength and willpower as anyone would do for love.<span style=""> </span>But a man saves himself first before saving any other damsel – especially at sea when our own natures dictate us to cling to things as we flail and thrash about, dragging the people we care about to our own sinking spaces. We felt the hunger of the seas sucking us in and we buoyed each other up - but only by pushing the other back down into the depths. It was a tragic affair.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Whether I drank too much of the sea to be permanently nauseous, I would never know till later. But for now, I am relieved, utterly so, that I have narrowly escaped its harrowing tempers. I am in solid ground, at last, and I shall walk my way back to inner land – from the sandy shores of the tempting beach, through the bustling, treacherous roads, to home.<span style=""> </span>I shall go back home.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>I shall summon courage to visit the seas once again, not now but soon.<span style=""> </span>I would be wise enough to swim in its shallower parts and put on a life vest when I venture out to its deepest waters.<span style=""> </span>I will learn to calmly ride the waves, not fight them nor fear them. I may see a drowning man or two and I may be lured with glorious promises of rescue but I shall remain far away from them.<span style=""> </span>I have drowned once and gruellingly broke myself free – it is enough experience for me. <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-59751069952662981682007-03-28T19:53:00.000-07:002007-03-31T21:01:09.154-07:00birthday letter<p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">28 March 2007<o:p></o:p><br />My Birthday<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p>I have often told you, in one way or the other, that being happy is a decision we make for ourselves.<span style=""> </span>As the clock ticks now to signal another year for me, I find myself stringing the tide of seconds through a constant renewal of a decision to be happy.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Even now in tears, I trample upon the suffocating, pervasive ache of sadness.<span style=""> </span>I choose instead to feel its confined sting, to awaken me – a pinch or two of utter pain that resuscitates my heart, allows it to throb once again for life, for me, for family. And then I learn to feel again, and the blood that courses through my veins reminds me of home, of all of you – and I feel alive. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>I have never found home here, no matter how hard I try. I have realized most people give in anticipation of what I’d give in return.<span style=""> </span>It is a tiring enterprise, to bargain for acceptance and understanding at every encounter, to rely not on the kindness of people but on fairness and equity. It is the way of the world, and I accept it, begrudgingly at first, but more and more resigned to it now.<span style=""> </span>Equally important, I have learned to breathe, to remember all of you and in that instant, glimpse a gap of clean air in the fog, reach out to it, and exhale. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>We are miles apart but ironically, I feel closer to you all now. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Perfection has always eluded me, and our relationships have seen its crests and troughs. But in its frailty, we have built better bonds.<span style=""> </span>I have hurt you, I know.<span style=""> </span>You have hurt me too.<span style=""> </span>But reprisal is the dust we sweep out of our home.<span style=""> </span>We forgive, we love again, we grow - and we become better family for each other. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>I am with you now, celebrating my birthday with you all.<span style=""> </span>We would have gone out for one of our customary dinners – seafood buffet perhaps and coffee afterwards.<span style=""> </span>I long for it but the picture is enough for the moment. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Read this letter and stash it as a mere sentimental outpouring.<span style=""> </span>I know you’d find it typical anyway, me – the emotional me.<span style=""> </span>Ascribe it to that and keep your worries at bay.<span style=""> </span>The mockery of this cheesy letter is coming, I know. Honestly, I can’t wait. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p><span style=""></span>I will see you all soon.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /><br /></o:p>With much love,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Ann<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-12505576767861495272007-03-27T19:52:00.000-07:002007-03-31T21:02:11.169-07:00decide to be happy<p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">I decide to be happy, to revel in the good things in my life and know that I deserve no less than the best and genuine from anybody and everybody. I have faith in the sincerity of my heart, in the kindness of my deeds and in the gentleness of my words. The tears I shed, no matter how often, remain threadbare evidences of the ill spirit others prosecute me for .<span style=""> </span>The tears are never admission of guilt, but are for grieving chances lost, excesses from the well of sympathy that was once so willing to give forth gushing water.<span style=""> </span>It seals itself carefully now, and chooses to gape open to those who I deem worth my time, worth my heart. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>I am nowhere near perfection, but I am at a state of greater awareness – of myself - this little girl from so long ago, who used to hide and cower at the often ill-perceived imminence of danger and risk.<span style=""> </span>Many fears remain, but the years have fostered greater commitment and willpower to overcome, to believe that everything passes – this too.<span style=""> </span>I decide my reality and bend the world towards it.<span style=""> </span>The world will bend to bestow me bliss, to grant me people who would love me and whom I would love, to build me a home at any corner of the world, be it in the ephemeral clouds, in the rocky seas, or on solid ground. I am happy, today on my birthday and always.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-22177083395095506542007-03-25T19:51:00.000-07:002007-03-31T21:03:03.362-07:00Catch me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Rg8rNqXPYwI/AAAAAAAAAAU/aq5B1IeAtyw/s1600-h/falling+from+the+sky.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Rg8rNqXPYwI/AAAAAAAAAAU/aq5B1IeAtyw/s320/falling+from+the+sky.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048301221015675650" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>Catch me when I fall.<span style=""> </span>I have gone too far up it’s futile to climb my way back down, each step secure but slow.<span style=""> </span>I WILL fall - hard and strong. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>I need you to catch me when I plummet down the never-ending floors of recklessness, deceit and pride, each level seeking to break my fall mid-way so I could once again reside in their confusion.<span style=""> </span>I shall plunge head-down to crack these fearful, crippling thoughts.<span style=""> </span>I shall leap with arms outstretched, clutching nothing from my past life but the garments it endowed me with.<span style=""> </span>Garments of deep realizations and painful insights – these I struggle now to wear and tear, wringing them of every last drop of meaning, losing as much unneeded load as I could off them before that inevitable jump.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Jump - down to where humility and grace are beds of comfort for the weary warrior of the world.<span style=""> </span>I shall rest with you after I wage my battles.<span style=""> </span>Some of them I would have won, some I would have lost.<span style=""> </span>When I’m finally down with you, the tally won’t matter.<span style=""> </span>I would have been with you, and I would have won anyhow.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-57990200204149376402007-03-25T19:50:00.000-07:002007-03-31T21:03:47.206-07:00Be Still<div class="Section1"> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>Lazy Sunday Afternoon</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>What is life but a series of circumstances that present themselves before us, raw and unassuming?<span style=""> </span>We either embrace them or retreat from them, all the time declaring ourselves worthy or unworthy of the good things that come our way.<span style=""> </span>Happiness itself is a decision, a never-ending endeavour to define and redefine ourselves amidst the milieu.<span style=""> </span>It is but waiting to be allowed entry, to commence the slow but steady clearing of dreary clouds and cast itself ubiquitously over the littlest nooks and crannies of our lives.<span style=""> </span>It expects little of us, simply to request that we be still.<span style=""> </span>For such is the nature of a restless mind – its constant quiver drowns out rising melodies from our hearts and silences our spirits.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p><br />So be still.<span style=""> </span>In serenity, you could root yourself in the never-ending tide of goodness and beauty, emanating from the most unexpected of people, in the harshest of places, at the most inopportune times.<span style=""> </span>Embrace these as they come, without apologies, without guilt.<span style=""> </span>It is life’s wish for you to own happiness and tread the world with light steps.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> </div> <i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-19836707994659596622007-03-22T19:45:00.000-07:002007-03-31T21:31:43.544-07:00Complete<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Rg81pqXPY0I/AAAAAAAAAA0/pvHgLy_jpkE/s1600-h/dragon+slayer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Rg81pqXPY0I/AAAAAAAAAA0/pvHgLy_jpkE/s400/dragon+slayer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048312697168290626" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Lately, I have been reduced to a cacophony of noises, rattling with voices not my own, a mere shadow of these dragons around me, pacing myself with each their breaths until I almost forgot how to do it on my own.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>It is now with renewed strength that I face the world again, free of the shackles I have personally locked onto my limbs some time ago, when I was blind and searching.<span style=""> </span>I am older now, wiser to have realized that sympathies are wares you buy with your self-esteem, and pities are but alms for beggars.<span style=""> </span>I choose not to beg, to ask, to seek.<span style=""> </span>I give all that I need unto my own.<span style=""> </span>I am sufficient and complete.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-749735167335189608.post-28030880546074871312007-02-08T20:24:00.000-08:002007-03-31T20:59:28.054-07:00postponed destiny<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Rg8t46XPYzI/AAAAAAAAAAs/8iOPG7WxqUI/s1600-h/waterfalls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_4d-wpHl6twg/Rg8t46XPYzI/AAAAAAAAAAs/8iOPG7WxqUI/s400/waterfalls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048304163068273458" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="">In the end, we are all just people. But in the beginning, we are dreams, longing to be fulfilled; in between, we struggle to be on course.<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>Pain is the sound of gray clouds looming, of uncertainty spoiling the first rays of the sun. It is the lingering scent of regret that suffuses the stubborn will, with iron hands cold to the face, fixing mine eyes to see that I have dangled by the bus of romance—where once I was valiantly welcomed, seated, sated, filled with warmth—hands ghostly white from holding on, long enough now to understand, long enough to overcome myself and see your dream’s worth, which I left dangling for so long, and which I hope to redeem as I dangle now. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>From the sidelines, I may have already been scraping off the scars of my demise, but from where the violent breeze inhales momentarily, I could see my being flailing about, groping for a railing of hope, for eyes that look kindly, biased by history and so foregoes the unattached popular objectivity, for the gently mouthed words, of faith still alive, of assured welcome should I make it back in time.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>Uncertainty is the tattered clothes ravaged by my utter desire for focus, left hanging on my weighted shoulders by the complicity of time, which long ago I embraced unwittingly with my complacency, old ugly aged like uneaten bread. Only now it’s a quite different kind, as if it has revealed its face, heretofore covered by the shining radiant hair of our proximity, thereby turning its common pang into an unknown and malevolent tumor. How I long to be naked again, or be else renewed by the passage of time, to be able to dream without the interminable fear of being scoffed at creeping in my stomach. But as with everything else, longing is not enough. This I accept without the least grudge, for it comes inextricably packed with the penance long overdue on my part. On the contrary, these I will befriend, like forgotten prophets whose sermons I have afforded nothing but deaf ears. I may yet find contentment in their arms—the spouses uncertainty and pain—a shelter from the instinct to regret anew the distance of the stars. I will hum loneliness in tune with my step, back straight, head bowed yet eyes transfixed on that elusive destiny. Pride is the sole I will wear out in going there, if it hasn’t been eaten up by my innumerable misgivings. In any case, I will trudge the distance if I should wear out the soles of my feet, and bleed the rest of the way. If life should be extremely kind and I find you at the end of the struggle, as if all along you’ve been jogging the chasms of an oval disappointment, ever checking if I’ve done my share of the bargain, then my dried blood caked on the streets of my battleground will have turned into monumental petals, victorious as the flowers you’ve grown in my world by simply walking it. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>But all that can’t be farther now. The honesty of the hand that grips my heart to the brink of suffocation, the acrid smell of my singed knees scraping the pavement, the merry pins and needles pitching tents in the hand that won’t let go of hope, and the renewed bellow of the laughing inhuman storm—these are mine now. They are my own. I bear them all in the hope that they are nomads in this desert I’ve concocted. I sever them from your back so you may enjoy the breeze that lies in wait for your vigor, your truth, your smile. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>Happiness is still a decision. My voice may fade from your ears, I may be nothing more than a vacuum yawning, but the truthfulness of my words, the scattered conversations that look misplaced in this strange surroundings, remain unadulterated. It is not that love is not enough; only that sometimes people are shown to be unworthy of carrying out its designs. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>You are my dream. You are my suspended reality. You are my postponed destiny. <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>some_pixie_dusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06381557651651925287noreply@blogger.com0