Sunday, January 25, 2009

A Glimpse of What Was

The village was silent

and the houses were dark

except for here

except for the light

silhouetting the gaudy figure

bent over

a piece of paper

rapidly writing with his pen

and reading with his books

at the same time

it was past midnight

The sun was shining

upon the green grass

swept by a gentle breeze

as we watch

under the shade of white

and chat

about life

with amusement

and amazement

it was dawn

The room was silent

the ceiling was white

and blank, it was clear

as the minds that flutter

as the chalk that grits

and leaves a mark

in rhythm with the voice

of learning

it was morning

At the armchair

with a spoon on one hand

and the pen on the other

asking, reading, laughing

getting over

with a quiz

or doing the impossible assignment

over the lunch box

and under the same roof with friends

it was noon

Tapping the ball pen

upon the stack of books

looking for references

authors, topics, all that can

be of use

to the paper, spilled with

inorganic blood

in awful figures of corrections

it was afternoon

Steps upon the gravel-coated stairs

conversations and final plans

walking among the santan bushes

and feeling the wind

stopping by the kiosk

or flagpole

or guidance office

or guard house

to feel the wind

and the company

it was dusk

The sight of the familiar

house, stall, dishes

cats, food, room

the backyard and the study place

the sound of welcoming

groans from a companion


it was evening

Lying down

on the ever-present bed

staring at the dark wall

and the dimly-illuminated ceiling

with the clock ticking by



savoring the time

when will all this end?

It was high school.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Warring Mind

Out of the dark horizon

springs forth the blossom of tomorrow

the breaking of a coldness

and the end of chronic stagnation

the beginning of the day

the start of life

oh, how lovely living is!

A cold despair all over

drenching all energy

sapping the light

and life itself

awful, horrible, terrifying

evil itself, apocalypse coming

loss of hope

what is left, then?

A hero, a hero!

someone will be saving!

he comes, He comes


freedom, security, a sense of relief

spark of hope

momentary energy, vision of a future

tomorrow suddenly rising

from dust

But why is everything

suddenly coming into focus

the battleground

suddenly arrived?

silence, momentary quiet

is the battle over?

has it been won



How foolish! this is my battle!

(but not my own)

Saturday, January 17, 2009


If anyone would pause for a moment, at any hour of any day, there is what one calls life. There, in the center of the motions of the world lie things unseen, and such relics of history that looking would not penetrate. The collective movement of people pursuing their own motivations, the dilation of time as the stationary remains, this universe revolves with differing dimensions experiencing chains of causes and effects. Then there is the motion of the self that puts forward every occurrence into its own accord, embedding the physical into a subjective ideal that becomes, in essence, more real than what may exist alone.
The existence of our very own thoughts, however, is not justifiable by ordinary circumstances. The purpose of a thinking man cannot be seen in a simplistic way, for it is by no means simple in itself. It is a wonder that the world seems so normal even with a very large social structure of rational beings. How can reformers of existence change the world but still make it whole? The capability of the human will to edit what is would be such a sovereignty over things, and in fact it is too powerful that differences between persons will rip existence apart. But the shared uniqueness of each individual is undeniable, and thus the harmony of the universe would become unreasonable. Is life embedded into a still higher order of being, and that independent activities are actual manifestations of this? If this is so, man becomes a slave of what can be termed as fate, that the will is actually a gear in an eternal mechanism and, in essence, do not exist altogether. If not, however, the other conclusion is that every individual acts and thinks exactly alike, that human beings are actually a single organism with a very huge and complex mind, subdivided into portions that represent the highest form of logic - and which would give birth to every human on earth. This is mysticism on the other hand, and further deductions would lead us to a self-schizophrenic perspective. What, then, is this life for? How do we exist? What is there to being a man?

Such questions dwell on a realm we may never ever reach, that in which human logic would not understand. Purpose, however, is a consequence of the continued existence of thought. A thinking being cannot exist - and would not continue to exist - if not for its knowledge of self-importance. Curiosity would penetrate the questions of being, and a lack of true purpose would lead to suicide. Thus the answer lies deep within the workings of our mind, inside the composition of the self that perpetuates our being us.

Why do we walk around the grocery, looking for the things we ought to buy? Why do we buy things, and look forward to consuming it or to giving it to someone? If we are to use the things we buy, why do we want to use it for ourselves? Why do we take care of ourselves?

If we are to give the grocery items to someone, for what reason do we do this? Why do we give others what they need, enabling them to be well like us?

Why do we care for other people? Why do we have friends or loved ones that we feel concern for? Why are we happy with them? Why do we need them?

Why do we talk to the people we consider closest to us, things which we think are important, things which affected us, or things which simply are part of ourselves?

Why do we desire to be with our parents, to hug them or talk to them or to simply be with them? Why do we feel secure when we are with them?

Why do we gaze at that person from a distance, longing to be near yet fearing what will happen if it comes? Why do we feel uneasy when that someone is with us, and is simply looking at us equally unsure of what is happening? Why do we close our eyes, when the universe seems to be just between the two of you?

And why, one really wonders, do we become mesmerized at the stars at night, thinking of the beauty this world contains?

Why do we live? Why do we desire to live? Why do we have life? Why do we love?

Am I living?

Thursday, January 8, 2009


Grave. What is the better adjective that can be used to describe humanity's point of view? The eyes of evil, misery, and pain, which see the circle of misfortune of its own kind repeatedly. One could even ask what is good with humans; and the sober sage would get even worse with such a question. A creature that imprisons himself in the hands of darkness, plagued by such mortality which he has tried to break many times, man is an embarrassing spectacle. Or is such a limitation a gift itself, which restrains such hideous things from totally destroying the universe? Man's key instrument is his logical mind, and with it he is able to come closest to God. But what a paradox: the vilest of creatures is most loved by the Creator, and has the best chance of getting to Him, but the motive is in contrast to what He has willed. Indeed, several attempts were made by man to make himself God, and many were lured to such a belief – even now. As close as we are to Him, it would be a relief to know that the gift of mortality was given to us; otherwise, we could have been worse than Satan himself. The tainted conscience springs from the union of the soul and the body, and this is of such delicateness in that it bridges two very different worlds. The mere existence of mankind creates a combination of the spiritual world and the Earthly physicality. The two are usually alluded as contrasts, the “perfection” and “goodness” of the spiritual world and the “vileness” and “darkness” of the physicality (i.e. heaven and hell). Man stands at the horizon, looking up at the bright sky while standing tall upon the earth. This is what separates man as a being and entity in the universe; yet all this greatness is lost, as a seemingly unjust history seems to inscribe man's self-chosen fate to a vicious circle of self-atonement. Again and again man gets to suffer, not merely because of his own doing but for the sake of another. The person will then break under the pressure of injustice, as one sees it to be unfair to suffer because of another's action, and continues the chain. Then besides man's tendency to overthrow God is his weakness towards sin, the essence of vileness itself. Standing between light and darkness, man grasps goodness only to be followed by his shadow. It seems that an unseen force darkens individuals' minds during a certain period of vulnerability (usually after one enters the cycle of oppression, where injustice is done upon the person for the first time), which would then cloud his vision until darkness envelopes everything he sees. Either its shrewd Satan or the entropy of the soul one cannot know, but this is the second structure that supports the unending history of man's unhappiness. The chains are binding every human being, and with each passing generation the stronger populace struggles with stronger and more clever constraints. These structures of man's doom then operate in the most sadistic way: man's own fruits of labor turn sour, and eventually become his own doom. Because of the strife created by the vicious circle, man's creations will turn against himself, and will apparently cause his extinction. This seals man to an almost definite path of destruction.

Why, just why can't man defeat his own shadow?

If only every human being realizes such a thing. If only those who have been worn by the chain enlighten the next generation, the next wave of mourners. If only every person extends his goodness just a bit, realizes that each one has a burden to carry. If only every individual understands that his offender is as offended as him, that sulking or planning revenge would just hurt someone else like himself. If everyone can see not the differences but the striking similarity with everyone else, the shared experiences and the sympathy. If everyone just screw their heads back to their places! Where is logic? Where is common sense? Where is intelligence? Where are the good qualities that man boasts of, even to the extent of trying to play as God? We can't even think in an acceptable fashion, yet we insist of doing wrong as if we know better than God himself! Are we really that stupid? Man, get up, and don't act like a sore loser! We hold the power of two universes, and we are endeared by the Creator Himself: why, then, do we become slaves of disgusting things? We are willed beings, we can choose our destiny, and we can do anything with the resources at our disposal. Why bow down when we can stand tall and reach for the sky? Why condescend, and put our potentials down as if we are worthless when we can be what we want to be? And why, being loved by such a perfect Being, loved by love itself, do we hurt, agonize, sulk, and disobey in return? Then, when we can answer all these troubling doubts, we would be revived from the fall of ourselves, and from that point onwards there is nothing that can stop us.