musings

What if the world wasn't ending
and we are given the choice
to go back -
2 years
3 years
or maybe even 6 years -
just go back
to how life once was
and relive our selves
starting at that selected point.
Would we dare
to look the other way
and choose to take the busy elevator
than the long, gray steps?
Would we dare to tell the joke
which seemed too bland
for everyone's tastes,
save for that of the insane?

What if the world was again
the one we once knew -
millions of seconds
of minutes
of hours ago -
and the choice is ours
to make and break.
Would we remain still
and unfazed by the chance
to weave our own tales?
Would we tread the same paths,
the same causes, the same days?
Or would we dare
to walk where we could not
had the present world went on,
where the answers would not have mattered,
where the questions would have been left

unsaid?

But the world is ending
slowly, even painfully
if you think about it too much.
And there is no more Time to go back to -
there is only Tomorrow and So On.
We can't erase the lines
defining our palms
nor evade the seasons yet to come.
We can only dream to be back there -
years
scores
eons ago -
only dream, and sigh,
and dream once again
to be younger and freer,
to have another chance
at our very own lives.
Dream, yes. And nothing more.

Wunderkind

When you seek a place, a thing, a name,
When you try to gather all then sleep,
When you listen to every word, and sound, and grief,
When you're filled to the top and cannot breathe...

When you roam and wonder at the undiscovered sights,
When you cry and hunger for warmth and light,
When you kneel amid the thorns, amid the vines,
When you grope for understanding but are given a knife...

When you speak of tales, of wrath, of haste,
When you smile in pain and nod 'hello',
When you close your eyes and let the anger flow,
When you open your hand for a Touch you missed so...

... you wait for Magic to happen
and will Time to hold all Wonders.
That's when you realize you're perfect, but all alone:
and there's No One there to take in the Beauty with you.

February 10, 2006

Zero visibility

Flights from Cagayan de Oro to Manila on January 3, 2009 were canceled due to the weather in Cagayan. Good thing the airlines got the stranded passengers a special flight for the next morning.
So, since I didn't want to sit through another road trip to and fro Bukidnon yet again, I opted to check in at Malberry Suites here in Cagayan de Oro.
And now I'm torn between "blankness" and bleakness.

Can't see the distance
can't look through the fog;
I try to live as the minutes tick by
and for these minutes
I'd be able to understand the hours.
My plane has landed
yet it can't take off again
and I wonder: should I stay
still, where my feet are stable
or try to fight the rough
inconstant winds.

(You give me the answer
but I shrug it off.
I've always wanted to make
all my flights work.)

brink

I wonder
if you'll materialize before me - for me - soon
or if I'll fade into my dreams sooner.

escape to home

... and when I plunge into the mundane,
you reappear, you pull me back;
and upon your touch, I succumb
to the dream that never left me --
not one second, though I'd been spending my conscious hours
walking the path that does not belong to my heart.

Upon your touch, I realize
you never left me --
not for a second -- and I,
I've always been yours.

Ode to Us who are Left - Wanting

Your mouth's agape -
close it before it's too late.
You, who wanted more;
you, who got less -
warm your shaking hands,
build a bonfire
far
far away from here.

Bukidnon

where the air is clean and captivating,
where you feel the dewy grass beneath your bare feet;
where the birds awaken your senses at sunrise,
where the trees' roots play with boulders and pebbles alike,
and where the same trees' topmost branches reach skyward to tell the Heavens of your dreams;

where the roads go up and down and up again,
curving toward the hidden inevitability, another magnificent unknown;
where restless souls are given time to think, to breath,
where castaways are welcomed and given space to heal;
where escapists are provided caves to hide their fears and their tales,
and where all abandon and adventure gallop along with the roan horses - unbridled, untamed;

where smiles are free and laughter comes much easily;
where the clouds meet the pale blue mountains in a quiet coexistence,
where the moon and stars shine brightly against the night sky;
where the end starts just like every song's beginning,
and where tomorrow feels like countless of good, harmonious days;

where comfort lies, snugly with a cup of freshly brewed coffee,
where the children play like how our children are supposed to play;
where we sleep, soundly - even dreamlessly,
where the colors are bright and soothingly familiar:
where our true home lies. and waits to warm our tired spirits once more.

Mountain song

I found a Land in the mountains and beyond
where you cross a river twice,
where blades of grass cut you until you repent.

Up and down I went with a young troop of five
and a wise man who told us stories
of the sky and of the plains.

The wise man taught us a song about journeying
to a bountiful land where welcome would be warm
to a good lady with my own name.

The men joined along but I could not -
not because of shame nor pride but because
I knew the girl was not good, though she tries to be.

On we went, through the raging river, past many questions
until the path ended at a cliff:
across the river stood the sacred Land, the people's Land.

I crossed the river with only the wise man,
his son, and the son's friend. I knew the trip,
like so many others I've had, would change me yet again.

We pitched our tents and swam like kids on summer break
and communed with the natives like it was
our second home. Yes, the Land, like my second home.

The mountains have always brought verve into my life,
a sense of freedom and danger that
no other form of nature could ever give.

Passion. It has always brought me passion.
And in the late hours, I listened to the wise man's tales
of love and dreams. I listened to the cold mountain breeze.

To the constant pattering of the rain.
I listened.
And I listened to Him.


The story ends there, where heaven and hell meet:

across the broad sky, across the mountain ranges
I had come to understand Time and Nature's humor.

The mountains brought me life.
Energy without the usual concomitant weariness.
Questions without the need to find answers.

I found a place I've never gone before
but in hindsight, I realize I'd been mistaken:
I didn't find the Land that I speak of --
the Land found me. And it had the last Laugh.

Reliving August 7, 2004

Something I wrote that day.

admission
how about
... you and i stay for a while
among the withered roses
beyond our caved secrets
how about
... drops of coffee
to aid our thoughts
and stain our senses
how about

... a silence long due
a break from the awkward noises
we always make
how about
... sleeping beside our graves
holding in our hands the fact
that heroes can't be saved

adrift

I drift.

and so it is...

"When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake then it subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision; you have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you two should ever part, because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness; it is not excitement, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day, it's not laying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body. No, that is just being in love, which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love, itself, is what is left over when being in love has burned away. Doesn't sound very exciting does it? But, it is." Captain Corelli's Mandolin

Fall

You bloom in autumn
with the golden hues reflected
in your pensive eyes;
faraway, the conch bids
a nostalgic lament
and succumbs to the whispers
of the rustling leaves.

Thoughts unfold
and you're demystified -
Time holds no mystery
but of its own perpetuity,
its constancy.

A quiet smile faces
the cool, passing breeze;
around you the maple
and the caballero weep
of its beauty:
you are captivated.

The park is serene
and splashed with the warm
colors of the sun.
By twilight, it is embraced
by the night's solitary breath.

This marriage of contrasting poles
leaves you with a pained smile.
Autumn is your Spring.
You bloom
and you weep its beauty.

Upon waking

For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

- A.C. (Algernon Charles) Swinburne

Ode: To the Barristers

So they went forward,in the direction of the sun
past the pillars, onto the uneven cobblestones;
and their hearts hum a low but hopeful chant
that within those great halls their dreams may truly come.

rebus sic stantibus

change
me
along
with your Time
so I
could move
along
with your world
that's now
different
from mine

(words
don't fit
anymore
nor the pacts
and promises
bestowed)

change
me
so I
could comprehend
the phases,
your doctrines,
the reasons
why.

'til it happens to you

i know what i said was heat of moment.
there’s a little truth in between the words we spoke and it’s a little late now
to fix a heart that’s broken.
please don’t ask me where i’m going,
cause i don’t know, anymore.
it used to feel like heaven,
it used to feel like may.
i used to hear those violins playing heart strings like a symphony.
now they’re gone away.
nobody wants to face the truth,
but you won’t believe what love can do
till it happens to you.

till it happens to you.
went to the old flat
guess i was trying to turn the clock back,
but how comes that
nothing feels the same now
when i'm with you?
we used to stay up all night in the kitchen when our love was new.
am i a fool to believe in you?
cause i don’t know, no, i don’t know anymore.
it used to feel like heaven,
it used to feel like may.
i used to hear those violins playing heart strings like a symphony,
now they’re gone away.

nobody wants to face the truth until their heart’s broken.
don’t you dare tell them what you think to do,
till they get over. you can only learn these things from experience,
when you get older.

i just wish that someone would’ve told me.

-Corrinne Bailey Rae

and I quote

I'm not special: of this I'm sure. I'm a common man with common thoughts, and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me, and my name will soon be forgotten, but I have loved someone with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.

-Nicholas Sparks

Labyrinth

This is the point
where you close your eyes
and let the brown walls seep through,
calming your nerves.

Open your ears to the constant strums
rhythmically filling
the tiny cocoon
as the aroma of freshly roasted beans
wafts through.

No one says anything -
the words all but soothes
the silent lips:
this is the place
where you ought to be mute
in order to feel.

Beyond the glass panes,
the crowd bustles about
excitedly, doggedly,
routinely taking their paths.

You,
in your cocoon,
you hear not the ticking
of the clock.
Time is merely Time;
you do not grow old.

You are not trapped -
any moment, you'd have to step out
and join the moon
as it changes its orb,
inevitably.

For now, it is a comfort to remain,
benign and serene,
in your earthly abode,
away from the strife
of motions, of noise.

Within the world,
yet apart from it.

picking up the brush again

Walls shouldn't be left naked
or the cracks will show.
And when men turn into angry boxers,
there'll be nothing to hide
the cuts with.
Though weak, foundations
should appear sturdy,
vibrant, constant.
It shouldn't age,
it shouldn't move,
it shouldn't be damaged at all.
Paint does that:
it hides the age,
the imperfections,
the inconsistencies.

The painting had stopped
for a moment
and the artist's eyes
were led to believe in permanence
and rosy intricacies.
But men always turn into
fickle boxers,
who crash into the walls
and through the dreams that cover them.
Soon,
the walls are blank,
they're naked and weak
once again.



The Painter is back;
go find your walls.
She needs you to cover her in dark hues
to mask her stained, bruised face.