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

taking a deep, positive, breath

A master of the art of tax and procedure told me to stop being melodramatic. And that I have absolutely nothing to be insecure about. And that having faith can sometimes prove to be beneficial to one's spirit.

I don't really agree with him but I guess I won't damage my brain if I do try to be positive for a while, or at least until my nerves can't take this (noxious?) change anymore.

Truth be told, I want to trust people badly and just hold on to that sprig of hope that there ARE still good people in the world. Honest people. Trustworthy people. Sincere, good people.

Fine. I just want to be in control of everything. I don't like to be surprised. So what better to do than to anticipate cruelty. But I guess that's just not how the Heavens had wanted Its people to be like. (Funny I always say "the Heavens" instead of God, Father Almighty, etc.) I guess that's where faith steps in.

I spend 99.9% of my time (almost) just worrying about the future and doubting people's intentions. The practice hasn't made me more human nor more discerning. In fact, I think it has made me older but, definitely, most definitely, not wiser. I should trust people. Especially those who have been there for me, through the good times and even some of the bad times.

They might have hurt me along the way, with their insensitivity and whatnots but hey, I've hurt them too. An eye for an eye, though I am most vengeful.

But hurting is not the point. Learning is. And "searching for the thing that's worth living for." The search. I've found mine more than a year ago, after praying at the Monastery of Transfiguration in Bukidnon. Although a few months thereafter, I've forced myself to think that the happiness will not last in order to "remain sane". However, it worked against my purpose.

There must be a reason why the Heavens (okay, God) led me to where I am now. To amuse and entertain others with my crazy antics and my uncanny knack for corny jokes? To nurse people when they're not in tip-top shape? To be there for the one person I care much about during his "down" times? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I could only surmise but I shouldn't expect my reward immediately thereafter. Neither should I demand for it. Heaven knows what to do and I should have faith.

Love? Of course I should have that too. And DO, that, mind you. Without doubting, without asking why and what for. Without bartering for something in return.

It's a long way off my usual course of business but I guess it'll be worth all the sweat in the end. The learning process never stops and if I'd ever find myself falling from a cliff after, I shouldn't regret. Even falls feel good: the wind blowing through your hair, the velocity, nothingness around you. Falls do not go on forever. You hit the ground and you have a new life. Life begins for you again, one way or the other.

I wish he'd read this and feel my sincerity, my contrition. I've been self-destructive for so long and have always justified this by some lame excuse or another. It has got to stop. I have got to live meaningfully.

I'd laugh a lot more. Laughter is not only good for my heart but also for my abs. Since I'm thinner now (I remember that light post of a guy who had referred to me before as "chubby"), having sculpted abs should make me look tougher.

If the month ends with me in tears, fine. In laughter, better. No regrets still. Every step I have taken to get here has a meaning and a few gashes won't make me less of a person. The important thing is that I have taken those steps, and lived.

P.S.
Chang, please support my "positive" stance. Comment positively. Hahaha!

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.

For Georgia (A Repost)

This is my ode to Bukidnon. Somehow I feel comforted reading the lines again.

It’s a toss between Savannah and Manhattan. Who’d ever want to leave Savannah, with its plantations and idyllic country life? You wake up to the sound of the birds chirping at your window and to the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen. The sun’s already up high at 7am. The cook’s knocking softly on your door and you know breakfast of eggs, toast, and hot chocolate is waiting. The cold water you used to despise when you were still little Michael Darling who had to be carted off to the tub by dear Nana becomes a favorite playmate to fend off the summer heat.

Never mind that the town is a bit farther than it once was – you don’t mind hitching for a ride nor do you mind getting behind the steering wheel this time. You’re all grown-up and you have your license to prove it. Never mind that life is slow-paced and people would raise their eyebrows if you step inside the bowling alley and gasp if you ordered a light beer at any of the grills. You know you have to live with their stares. Your girls will have to, themselves, when the time comes. Having your last name as it is denotes pros and cons, and it’s either you conform to the structure of your family’s history or dye your hair red and cackle with glee while playing pool. Oh your dad will curse you if you ever choose the latter – but you won’t, of course. You’re too boring. You suit your Savannah.

That’s why you love it so. The lake is minutes away from your country house. You like it there – the sun’s reflection on Nazuli’s face, the peaceful rippling of the water, the leaves floating along the edges, the rocky bottom, the trees that surround your secret place, the kids and the teenagers with gold hair and bright blue eyes who swim like merpeople. They’re so different from you and yet you both love the icy water splashing against your faces. You don’t know how to swim but that’s the last thing on your mind. Who cares if you dive in and never live to see the surface again? At least you’re within the tranquil fort you dream of owning someday.

Though your Savannah sun gives you practical leeway to get out and smile, it also turns against you at times, scorching your hair and drying out all your enthusiasm. Close proximity to Heaven does that to you. And just as the sun can harshly lap at your face and never tire from doing so for hours, the rain can also be unforgiving. You remember having been stuck at the state college one bleak summer afternoon. The rain had come pelting with such intensity that you feared the roof of the buildings would give in to the tremendous harassment. You know that there are times when the rain would break and hit the rocks and the roofs. Hale. Your neighbors tell you to be thankful for not having experienced being hit with icy drizzles on the head. They sting. You had thought they would, naturally, but being the curious, crazy kid your father always complains about, you always go outside and smile up at the clouds, hoping with all your might that Heaven would throw you even a tiny icy dot. It never did; you liked getting drenched in the rain, though.

You have so many fond memories of rain here. It had brought first love to you. It was a surreal day when you and your friend’s older brother found yourselves under the same umbrella. You had been 13 and he, 18. he had thought you were at least 17 and had been enraged when he found out you were practically a baby. It hadn't been easy detaching yourself from that chapter of your life. You felt the pain of the distance and the sheer difficulty of making hopes meet. You had to go away. Age had become just a trifle thing. Status had taken its place. Maybe, you think to yourself, things would work out someday. And maybe you, yourself, would make things work someday.

Rain also gave you and your cousins a moment of bonding and adventure. (Actually, it had been you, your two nieces, and the first cousin of one of your nieces but you called each other “cousins” anyway.) You had gone around the city in search of something nice to do: you had hung out at the pizzeria, the hotel, the high-end boutique, and even to the drugstore; still, you were bored. Rain had suddenly whipped your hats away. Your clip-on earrings had fallen into the muddy heap and had floated along the canal. Your summer outfit had stuck to your body and everything felt good. The four of you had laughed, skipped, danced along the street like loose, drunk women. You had had the time of your young lives. Rain always teases the soul of your Savannah.

And of how you had been teased not just by the rain but with the sweet words of men. It had always been a reciprocal fever: flirtation and naivety had chuckled and blushed between both of you. You and the flavor of your month. Or week. You had always been fond of playful talking, sometimes to the point of blatant seduction. But like your Savannah, you had gone home every night and had spent every moon on your bed – dreaming alone.

You want everyone to be enamored by your simplicity, subtle wit, and understated enthusiasm for all things wonderful without expecting a dangerous ride. You nurture them – their thoughts and their pains. You like it when they go home to you, their true north. And if they ask for more than what you give them, you shut them out.

Dusk turns your home into a quiet sanctuary of warmth. Laborers go home, tired but in high spirits still, just like how they had been yesterday and the day before. Farmers return home with sacks of corn and rice from the mill, with their horses, with their hearts. Late nights are for the restless and the debutantes. There are small bars and your neighbors’ houses for that. But for you and everyone else, nights begin with the discovery of home. Once you find it, it’s yours forever; but the magic of its discovery lives on, teasing you always as the sun sets behind the Blue Mountains at your backyard.

You had made your discovery here. Now, you watch as your tears melt with the rain, nourishing the grass under your feet. Naked, you are full of promise, seductive yet serene. Your smile will go to seek certainty. Your smile is wistful and knowing: you are about to live an adventure yet again in an altogether different place. Far from here, you will go to seek certainty. You will go up the steps of imposing buildings, flash your ID at the security guards and officials and walk among the crowds in the busy avenues, indifferent and anonymous. You will wake up thinking about the eggs you’d have to cook for breakfast and sleep, wondering if you still have eggs in the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast. Soon.

You smile and feel the wind caress your cheek. Manhattan has always been kind to you. It has given you much – even more than you had ever asked for. You love its notoriety, its vivacity, and its flair. But you are soft, so unlike the severe portrait you flash at others. You discriminate and hate; you throw your head back in laughter and gasp at surprises. You cry in silence.

You are the flat stone that boys send rippling across the water, the coffee bean that awakens the writer’s senses in the early morning. You bow your head in sadness and the forest takes you in her arms. You cherish promises and nurture friendships, you embrace memories and more memories, and you treasure your home. Try as it may, the rain can never dampen your spirit, nor can the sun ever burn your hands. You are Savannah. And this, this is home.

'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