painful and emo

that first verse of Chasing pavements? yeah.

also, that one greeting would've meant the world to me.

A poem dedicated to tonight's heartbreaks

Funny how one night
can erase a punctuation mark
ruin a contraction
and describe us so perfectly.

"we're together"
"were together"


[why is it that we can write
the words we so want to say to each other
but we will not, because we cannot,
say them, differentiate them.]

slave to one's self.

There are people who stand up for themselves. There are people who stand up for others. And still, there are people who refuse to stand at all. Who among them is right, and who among them is wrong?

After careful consideration, I find myself still at a loss for answers. And really, I began wondering, is the fault of the consideration in the lack of an answer, or in the intrinsic nature of the question?

Surely, if at least one among them is right, then the answer would've already come out through the thousands of years of philosophizing and psychologizing. That, obviously, is not the case. The soft sciences and the soft areas of introspective study are still at a loss of answers on almost everything we might want answers to. We still don't know if religion is the answer, if fighting back is proper, or if at the end of it all, there really is no reason why we exist, aside from what seems to be coincidence.

But then again, how can the intrinsic nature of the question be wrong? If the question were wrong, then the same thorough process of thought that has enveloped (and some might say, even characterized) human history must have discredited them already. If they were wrong, and consequently answerless, then they should be as silly to consider as "whether or not the sky smells purple".


And further still, (on the third alien hand, if you will), there seems to be the religious acquiescence of knowledge. It's not our place to learn; we are (after all), not God. Or maybe, we can quote the scientific quest of ever-expanding knowledge. We will learn... eventually.


Faced with this overwhelming amount of uncertainty, no one can really concretely give any answer to anything (philosophical, at least. don't take it too literally). The wise man therefore knows that he knows nothing, the passionate reasons only his reason to be, and the philosopher questions his questions.


Indeed, at the end of it all, there are no conclusions to arrive at. There is, at least in the immediate period of time, no answers to the great questions. All that we might want to say and state are merely a report of our observations, biased by the great questions we think them to be answers to. The paradox is that there are no great questions except the questions which question themselves.

Let's not make this like the other one; or rather, the one about chasing pavements.

I know that I'm difficult to understand
and, at times, even more difficult to suffer;

but I ask for your patience
to get to know me better
as I get to know myself better too.

The idea of trekking into some great unknown of inter and intrapersonal growth scares me
Even moreso, the idea of having to do it by myself.


You see, thing is, I don't really know what I want
or what it is I want to ask for
because for so long now, I thought that I've been acting mature
and admirable
by trying to ask for nothing, and trying to give everything.

Wanting, and exerting effort, to get to know you better
but keeping myself, and my consciousness and conscience
in some hidden dimension, as to attempt to appear strong
strong willed
and just the right kind of person
to give you what you want and need
(even though I most probably can't)


Not knowing that in doing so, I muddied up
not only what I now think I know I want
but also the very definition of asking and taking
and of self-preservation and devotion.


A lot of people are telling me about the merits of selfishness
and objectivism
and learning to love myself
I think I did, when what I wanted to do
was to love you.

I don't want to be selfish
and I tried not to,
but I ended up being more than I thought I would have been,
because selfishness isn't in asking and begging
but in taking.

I thought that my asking, and my taking
was present in my giving
and in your returning


but now I realize that it's not, as it wasn't
and it's not your fault
because I never asked for what I was asking for
and so, its only natural that I never got what I never wanted.


So sorry if I snap
and sorry if I do things I don't want to
and sorry if i'm hard to understand
and if I try your patience so many times

I'm going to be a little selfish now
and ask for what it is that I want

I want you to stick with me
I want you to bear me
and be there for me

I want you to choose me.
choose to stay through floods and storms
to be tempted to leave and fly away
but to choose to keep both feet planted on the ground
and your arms around me.


even though sometimes, I can't give the right answers
or any answer at all.


Stay there for me
the way I'm staying here for you


and when all is done
and things are to be said
I will wait with bated breath
for a word, any word to come

LET ME SPEAK.

I don't need your salvation, just let me burn
And maybe at the end of all this we'll learn

Of Jellyfish, cockroaches and man

crossposted from my actual handwritten journal. Gonna post it here before I render myself unable to read my old handwriting.

it reads:

Going into it, I guess made it a bit less romantic. One has to ask for the triune of action: motive, opportunity and means. Romanticism is the least of goals, but lyricism captures and entraps you in its fallacy. There are no heavy downpours in the middle of summer to run under; there are also no means to appear at a scene and somehow exchange one or two perfect lines. Perhaps there is a reason why romanticism died in the middle ages and is survived instead by a contemporary mentality that promotes jadedness and isolation.


Jadedness does not equate to a refusal to accept or [wholeheartedly] believe. It just means that it would take a little bit more to make someone agree, believe or to be convinced. And while jadedness on its own may seem to hinder a basic appreciation of ordinariness, it is nonetheless a "necessary evolution" of the modern times. What do I mean?

This evolution can be seen (or even parallelized) in our own primordial ancestry. We used to be content with the situation of things, the environment and what it provided. We were blissfully unaware of what "evil" was. We were, to serve the parallelism, sponges and anemones (jellyfish, even) floating and living along with the tide. Eventually, though, new threats arose and new fontiers grew old, and we found ourselves unable to [merely] settle with drifting along. Cue evolution- we rushed out of the water, breathed new air and grew legs. Fast forward another several million years, and you have modern times in all (or none) of its glory.

[Going back to the stretched out metaphor,] Jadedness, for me, is like the backbone that allows us to stand upright in this harsh and desolate (ha ha) society. It allows us to stand erect, defy, and every once in a while, even choose to do more than what society would let us float through.

Conversely, I find that cynicism (axiom: a prelude to isolation) can be likened to an exoskeleton. Whereas jadedness manifests on the inside as the simple refusal to be swayed without burden of proof; cynicism is an outside shell that refuses to be fazed, and won't even let outside evils reach its squishy innards. Of course, this works just as effectively (look at the proliferation of invertebrae) as the other- man will step on bugs, and bugs will outlive men in the event of a nuclear apocalypse.

So really, at the end of it all, what philosophy or anatomical evolution works? It really depends on you. We may be used to man's overbearing presence and domination (HA HA HA!), but again, I'm sure that the cockroaches too have their fringe benefits. Again, there is the temporary domination of man as the prime species and the more socially-acceptable behavior of disbelief and unfazedness (alas, the times conform to it rather than the other way around); but there is also the postulated longevity of invertebrae and flat out cynicism. And, hopefully you haven't forgotten yet, although they are nowhere near man's complexity or the cockroaches' longevity, jelly fish still do live today, as unfazed, unchanged, and unstoppable as before.

And that's the way it will go. Until the day comes that we damn ourselves with a nuclear apocalypse (born from our own tendencies to have our heads up down under), all three species and philosophies will stand on their own two feet, six feet, tentacles, or what have you.


-0-

I think I wrote that after like 30 hours of no sleep and emotional torture (as shadily referred to by the "going into it" at the start), so no, I will not apologize for the lack of coherence cohesion and that other "c" that we were taught all essays should have.

tee hee.

that said, i like the first paragraph, really. :P after that, it just gets weird :P

The Angel- the star who shines the whole spectrum of light.

Every night, when it was convenient for the both of us, my angel would visit me. At first I didn't think it could be my angel. He was supposed to be white and pure, with a face of pure innocence and grace. On his back, wings should've cradled him, and his step lithe and silken, like his flowy, white garments. He couldn't have been any further from what the classic artists would've depicted him as. He was a distinct tan- not quite brown, but not quite caucasian either. His posture was not too perfect, he had a slight slouch that I could only guess was because he often had to bend down to talk to me. He was clumsy at times, and he openly detested wearing anything too large and remotely skirt-like. His face, at times, looked tired and haggard, but his eyes betrayed his disguise- in them you could not only see deep into his soul, but into yours too, and when he looked at you, there was always a fierce burning that could otherwise only be described as the soft pat of the gentle belly of a flame.

To this day, I am unsure whether or not he meant his disguise. There were moments when he would make it seem like his disguise was a special effort on my part- as if he wore it to make me feel special that I knew of his gentle nature. Other times, however, even he seemed to be oblivious of his own state of grace. There would be times when he'd act so clumsily, so, brazenly, and yet so delicately endearing that he seemed to be a contradiction only a few could notice. One thing, however, was certain. Whenever we would be by ourselves, he would make his mask fade and let me sneak a peek at something so utterly human it could only be divine.

We would meet and talk at odd hours. Granted, we were together for most of everyday for the four years I'd known him to be my angel. But so long as the sun was out, he'd let me live my life, and he'd go about his own business. Sometimes, we'd converse when he'd take me places, but often it was when the moon was out and the world refused to listen that he'd talk to me. It was always a patient ritual- we'd start out asking questions about the day and relating pieces of gossip. Then we'd discuss school and sibol, and our common friends. Eventually, one of us (but most often it was me) would bring up a personal question, or a personal anecdote, and then the conversations would start. The conversations were always frank, borderline tactless, and truthful, but they were at the same time divine and heartwarming. He'd offer advice and I'd listen. I'd pretend to know a lot about the world, and he'd humor me.

We'd talk until he would say that he had to go. He had a better grip on time than I did, and he'd remember the need for sleep on a schoolnight sooner than I ever would have. Given the choice, I'd stay up all night talking to him, but he knew when it was time to go. After all, we'd meet again the next day, there was no need to worry. And even though the ends of the conversations sometimes left me alone in the dark (literally), I still felt important, significant, guided, blessed and loved. It was part of his angelic magic, I guess.

But like any angel (or so I would imagine), he rarely asked for anything in return. He never minded that I would often run to him in times of utter despair, but that I'd more easily spend the last few minutes with someone else. He listened to me rehearse the most poetic words I could come up with, knowing that they weren't meant for him. He would just take it in when, in a bout of selfishness and egoism and a need for destructive self-affirmation, I would lambast him and pretend to know more about the world and its people.

Naturally, he was the first to find out about most of my problems. He was also always the first, and somtimes the only person, to hear me at my most callous. He knew me better than anyone else (and I can say that with total honesty), and I've rarely been ashamed to show him who I really was- human flaw and all.

Now that I'm leaving, I'm scared to find out where I'd end up going without his guidance. Unless he proves me right and suddenly grows wings, I'm afraid he'll have to stay and be an angel to others as well. Problem is, I've grown dependent on his counsel and support. I've let it feel like he was mine, though he never was. I can only hope that he's taught me enough, and that he's rubbed off on me enough.


Words have become too convinient for us. I'll forever remember those minutes. The lights were dimmed for no reason at all. I went up to you and offered you my hand. You took it and squeezed it hard. The darkness in the room disippated with the urgent light you radiated in that spilsecond, just as you have radiated whenever I came to you for help. It was a dazzling, but humble luminesence that only you angels could produce, and it briefly lit up the path ahead of me. The panthers let out a dejected sigh as they retreated to the shadows. The looked at me with contempt- I could've easily been their next prey- but your armor protected me. The sharp rocks were pushed out of the way by the new grown grass that smiled at the light they craved. The trees burst green, the skies exploded with a thousand hues of blue and they all pulsated along with the beat of your red heart.

I looked down on the mossy pathway and spotted a bottle of indeterminate color. It reflected all the colors of the rainbow, just as the surface of a bubble would, and just like a bubble, it burst into a thousand tiny shards the moment I touched it. Each splinter sucked with it a speck of light color from the world until I was left with the dark I began with. I dropped to my knees and pounded the floor in frustration. I slapped my hand, chest, knees, legs and head on the ground where the shards lay, glowing but trapped. The shards dug deep into my skin and sent waves of exquisite pain to my soul. The splinters travelled down my veins, arteries, nerves and spirit until they buried themselves into my dark, dark heart. I doubled over in pain and passed out.

When I woke up, I found myself alone in the dim glow of reality that was neither dark nor vibrant. Your light melted my frozen heart. But like anything made of ice, it melted into a pool of lukewarm water.

I felt myself choking. I beat my chest to loosen up my airways, and felt a sharp sting of glass burying itself deeper into me. I touched my chest again, trying to see what was causing me discomfort, and I pricked my finger. A drop of blood trickled out, bright red, then blue, then green. From a distance, I could hear a soft beating.

It was a divine, but utterly humanizing pain. And I realized that now, you are part of me, and will never again be able to leave. You, the person who brought down the stars and let them rest on the palm of my hand, have buried yourself deep into my heart and soul.

Bonafide seeker.
Bonafide splinter.

It'll leave a lovely scar
This surgery in the sky.





See you on the other side, ico :)