For the longest time in my blogging venture, I have never felt the urge to post any of those “life update” entries where people share the latest stories about their life, mostly because I believe that I do not owe anybody an explanation for my life and that nobody really cares about what’s really going on.
All of us look back to a certain time in our lives, seeking for the same turbulence of the New Year celebration and trying to relive the excitement we once had as a child, but finding instead that all of our attempts only lead us to a place where it is silent and calm.
Welcome to the world of adulthood.
Weekends are for crashing into bed and tucking yourself beneath blankets; your favorite teenage playlist banging rock music in every corner of the room as if it is some kind of a personal familiar comfort, melting the world of its temporary intimacy and sense.
Weekends are for reminiscing and travelling back in time. Your unmade bed is a space machine and your imagination are wings transporting you to a decade of wander and wild spirited youth. Continue reading “In Remembrance of Youth”
There should be a word for the gap in our souls, for this hollow space in our chest where our hearts used to be.
I reach out for myself, dragging my hand all the way down my trembling lips, my bruised neck, my aching collarbones, and notice the cracks stretching infinitely into that lonely cave they call heartbreak. I let my hand wander further and find my skin a vast ocean of memories. My eyes water, my tears forming pool and tracing an island of scars.
The mortal cries,
This eternal sleep
This interminable repose
Lips pursed, blood shot
eyes, she watches
A mortal, in silence
The mystic moon is weeping
on her cratered balcony rail
Luna has awaken.
I thought I would never to be able to bring myself to write another entry here.
But here I am once again: scribbling a letter after another until I finally make up a word, a sentence, a paragraph that’s lucid enough to express my apparent ambiguity and my obscure speculations about the world, about everything I know (or thought I knew).
For lack of a better paragraph,
I begin the march with a poem
Steady like a summer hike to
the summit of your disregard
and forgetting, like ancient men
with their ancient history
The end of February always brings a certain kind of sadness to me: sharp, weighty and wordless like a falling dagger to the chest, hammering through the flesh and beating my heart to death. Out of all the months in the year, February is the most difficult to say goodbye to, because the farewell only acknowledges the arrival of a new month, my birth month, and that for me is more than terrifying.
November—I can smell you in the air
like chamomile on a cup of tea
sending whiffs of silent merriment
swirling in a cloud of anticipation
for what a year it was, what a year it has been.
A prologue to Time
A summary of disbelief
So what are you dressing up as?
A horned devil.
Your choices are so primitive! I’m dressing up as Harley Quinn.
Too mainstream, I prefer the classic Dracula.
How about you? What are you dressing up as?
I went to the cemetery today: a one-ride trip to the northern part of the city that is well-known for roasted pork and burial grounds and crematoriums. I have been to this area only once in my life, about two years ago, when we had to take Lola to her final resting place. Even then, I couldn’t understand the idea of burial rites as the final passage of a person’s life. And when they said in unison, “Lola is finally going to rest,” I thought mournfully to myself, “Finally?”
Hello September, it’s you again.
It seems to me that once again I have lost track of time. If someone comes up to me and asks what month it is today, I would probably say December or March without thinking twice, or scream the year 2010 without doubting its validity.
My sinking soul could only hold so much of its consciousness before it finally starts to displace its attention to something more crucial than the fleeting motion of people and events, before it finally starts to lose all reverence to time.
Today I stood in the middle of a sea: a great white sea of papers and parchments and pain crashing one after the other with all the madness of a tidal wave, screaming to kiss the shores with all the urgency of a ticking time bomb. I stood in the middle of the raging waters and looked longingly at the immeasurable vastness of this now foreign territory, an ocean-deep of memories from my five-year stay at the university. Piles and piles of papers lay before me like flowing river: test papers, term papers, thesis drafts, photocopied pages of books from all of my adored authors, sheets of scratch and sentiments.
I looked each of them with wistful eyes, trying not to remember the long tough days when I once clung onto them like a child, like my whole life depended on every single word written on their pages. I read these words now, treaded on them carefully as if trying to extract a secret code, to see if maybe I had missed something important in all of my five-year education in philosophy. But in the end I only see these words words words and the absence of their context, their meaning, and realize that maybe I could never think again as deeply as when I did when I was there in the university—face to face with the unspeakable colors of dusk, the gentle breeze wheezing from the lonely river nearby, the gentle rhythm of trees swaying as in a dance, the sound of students’ laughter seeping through the cracks of time.
There are so many things I would like to say, so many stories I would like to share, so many pain I would like to express. These things are in my head—screaming, boiling, begging to be heard. But I cannot find any more reasons to release them to the universe where I know they would also inflict the same damage that I have sustained.
Sometimes I imagine myself as the vest to a bulletproof man: this weary little jacket which serves to cushion off the assault of bullets. But as soon as I think of such a thought, I banish it from my mind as much as possible, for there is no reason at all for one to think of oneself as a hero at all costs.
One day in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.