On leaving and being left behind

Again I write of the saddest lines
Those that tell of departures and absences
It is curious how the social man
Both craves and dreads leaving places, lives
Spent in reason, fantasy and philosophy
Daily conversations that now turn to mere memories
Habits that are now unbalanced, missing, possibly impossible
Now that a cog is gone
The clock still turns, awkwardly
As if telling the present but living in the past
How do humans live like this?
And how do they continue to live on
Like this
Like this constant collusion of lives
And the inevitable drifting away afterwards
How can the sky remain
When stars die and fall down in blazes
Is everything for naught?
Is life all for naught?
Are temporal things without meaning?
Like ripples that collide, blur and disappear
Ethereal, temporary, brief...


But at that exact moment
The universe stops
It is the only thing that matters
All those moved by it will never be the same
Even when it all ends

And it is pain
And this is pain
But it, too, will become a memory
And this is the saddest fact of all
And this is the happiest fact of all



I look at the sky
And see the darkness of night
Highlighting the stars

Parting Ways

The End. Finn. These things don't exist in the naive world. Then again, even this blog is going to end.

Several other things are ending as well, but let's just say they are summed by that one entity known as Finality. All things created will have an end, from which their purpose would be born.

Unfortunately, finality is a difficult concept to grasp. It is too big for a human brain; and it is too painful for a human heart. One understands the pain of transition, cherishes the value of what came to pass, and, ultimately, laments the transience of memories. We know this to be true, but it seems to be always outside our control.

We cannot stop change. We have no choice but to embrace it.

And I have to say goodbye. 'Til we meet again.

I feel like an amnesiac desperate to snatch what's left of his memories

Sinner's Repentance

To the dying heart, oh kindle that flame
Fan thy embers and save thy soul
The darkness has bound you in chains of steel
And steel of worldliness and sin
Shatter your mirror of vanity, your crystal pride
Bomb your jaded palaces and towers of ivory
Thy utopia is but a non-existent fiction
A void awaiting the collapse of the star of death
The eyes can pierce the soul of man
Yet His would judge him
But then he still gazes at the putrid mixture called self
And longs to find the tiniest shard of hope
Why should anyone even care for this ungrateful creature
Whose hobby is to destroy itself?



But He believes
Eternally
Without end

And I actually express myself, but it has to be remote and abstract I hate myself

Foolish Words

Tonight I write the saddest lines
As reality sets in
The darkened sky finally envelopes
An illusion sun of despair
With a broken heart that was mended in tears
The eye cannot betray
For even the most deceitful smile
Can never hide the grief of a dying love

Tonight I reflect upon a sadder moment
The loneliness of a poor man
Attached to the fleeting security
Of a dwindling finance
And the fictional stronghold of friendship
Where social security provides happiness
But strips people naked

This evening I am moved by grief
Of every grievance that existed
As the tears of heaven and earth meet
And collide in the fusion and fission of stars
A wonderful sight
A beautiful lie

Tonight flowery words come out of a fool's mouth
The pathetic person's mind whose sense of importance is stubborn
Battling for its wounded pride
And dying self-esteem
He thinks of nothing else but stupidity
Cares of nothing else but self-gratification
Needs nothing else but the acceptance and appreciation of others
Drowns himself in the fantasies of a non-existent love
Where he explores the labyrinth of possibilities
Which are impossible
He lives in the past, in the fiction, in dreams, in the mythical world
But in the real world he is but a miserable man
Behind a mask of pretence
And a reputation of a non-entity

Warnings of Disdain

I cease to ask the world. I cease to exist.

I live under the pretence of a person. I speak languages. I think abstraction. I feel. Yet there is emptiness in each one, in everything.
                                      Everything I do.
For this world is an alien territory. The abyss of fanaticism. It wants everything. It needs nothing. The self-imploring machine of doom. It values a lot.
                                              And I do not have value.
The cynical cycle of sadomasochism. They love it. But there is no love. Instead, there is indifference. The seething hatred for empathy and change, mucking the filthy sewer system of narcissism. The vanity of the beautiful, the knowledgeable, the wealthy.
                                                      Wisdom is lost in translation.
No one bothers to think. Everyone is thinking. Thinking is not exactly the same as thinking. One is wisdom, the other is not. Yet the world has been blatantly obscuring everything that there is no distinction left. See it for yourself.
                                                                 Then again, what self?
Hold your nose up high. Stomp your feet on the soft pavement of the poor, the wretched, the underprivileged. You are the modern Pharisees of the 21st century. You speak everything, you do nothing. And worse, you are blind, blinded by your own light, your self-proclaimed splendor and glory. You have become your own God. And with your pride in yourself comes the damnation of your kind. You will be denied death. You will cease to exist entirely. And you will be locked up in a prison made of yourself, for even Hell will spurn you!

The mirror shatters into pieces.

On To Nothingness

For there is the word called existence
Self-sufficient, maybe
Indeed
Possibly
But then there is this word called
Change
And the suffix named
Anti-
How then, could existence's substance
Remain
And its meaning
Stand
On its own
There would be a clash of
Selves
And the creation of dimensions
Facets
Relativity
Dynamic existence conforms to change's will
Anti-existence destroys itself
Yet, both would still conform
And would be encompassed by
Existence itself
For inconstancy is a fractal
Viewed on the other
Side of the telescope
Is not itself
While inexistence is a paradox
Which cannot be found in the dictionaries of the world
Now then, is it not peculiar
that this humble story
Of words plotted against words
Reflects the grand conflicts of today?

This is an answer to liberalism.

No Fear - Science News

http://www.sciencenews.org/view/generic/id/67690/title/No_fear
So...are we really dictated by our brains?

Gene Genesis - Science News

http://www.sciencenews.org/view/generic/id/67926/title/Gene_genesis
Genetic history of things...familiar?

Cells Reprogrammed To Treat Diabetes - Science News

http://www.sciencenews.org/view/generic/id/67513/title/Cells_reprogrammed_to_treat_diabetes
A promising cure for diabetes, as well as other genetic diseases

Lamentation

There is a grief that is like no other
It infects the eyes too subtly
                                    it cannot be seen
The mind is seared, the spirit is extinguished
Yet not one man has ever felt pain or loss
It is a flame that burns, yet leaves no trace
It is the most dangerous weapon in the world
So dangerous that no one ever gets the advantage
                                    all sides are defeated
                                    all teams lose

This is the grief of the mother whose child rises to power and fame
This is the grief of the lover whose beloved has kissed him for the first time
This is the grief of the graduate whose valedictory address has been spoken
This is the grief of the nationalist who saw the revolution happen
This is the grief of the artist after finishing a masterpiece
This is the grief of the king as he looks at the expanse of his kingdom

It is the grief of destiny, of chance, and of fate
It is the grief of reality
That as one savors victory, triumph, success
       as a human being achieves his life-long goal
                                                his desire
                                                his purpose
There is another that groans in pain and misery
And takes all the inequality and oppression
Instead of you

Solace at Solstice

I mourn for the soothing wind,

It is lonely, and will always be

I mourn for those who never sinned

Mercy they will never see

I mourn for the early sun,

It gives light but unto itself

I mourn for all the things undone

Like old, unopened books on shelf

I mourn for the radiant sky,

It can never touch the ground

I mourn for those who wish to fly

They get lost; they're never found

I mourn for the evening star,

Or what remains of its past light

For what turns sweetness into sour

Or day into the night

I mourn for the comet's tail,

It will never return

I mourn for the weak and frail

Their strengths society spurn

I mourn for the midnight moon,

It is the sad reflection of humanity

The widow, the orphan, the dead, the loon

Oppressed by hostile insanity

I mourn for those who always mourn

They do for mourning's sake

For with the truth we are reborn

A banquet, we partake.

Timelessness

In a world of the temporal, will the lost human race ever have lasting possessions? Which things last?

Change, the flux of the universe.

Love, the supreme driving force.

Existence, that which willed itself into being.

Grace, the great preserver.

Destiny, the third-person observer.

Harmony, the pattern of chaos.

Hope.

Pleas

Chains of trouble that bind the heart to the depths of despair, vanish!

Totally painful. It is very painful to face a crisis alone. The crushing weight of the problem seems impossible to resolve in the absence of a friend. It is too lonely.

When can man say that his companion is a friend? When there's concern. When there's sincerity. When there is a yearning to listen and empathize, not just empty words of unneeded advice.

Of course, every human being has the capability to think. No one is truly stupid in  its own sense. Each person knows what his actions mean, or that there is a purpose to it. Even the purpose of not having a purpose is a purpose in itself.

Well then, why do so many people misjudge others, why do they talk, preach, and even rebuke when what one needs is a listening ear and a pure willingness to embrace the problem as if it was their own?

Most especially, why do humans correct the mistakes of others that they themselves commit? Why are they trapped in constant hypocrisy in commanding things they never do? It is a pity that the eye cannot see itself.

And it is a pain that some friends never truly understand the big picture.

Gratitude

For the year that is coming, and for the year that will pass away; a turning point becomes a milestone. The milestone then becomes a monument, especially for its sculptors and his benefactors. And the sculptor wants their patrons recognized.

For the hearing out of those pleas with which only the most sensitive ear can listen to. The deepest secrets which were born out of both desperation and insecurity, the tales of which the living tragedy unfolds. A dark truth that pierces the hearer and binds the teller to secrecy, with which only courage and sincerity could undo. For knowing, and genuinely being there.

For the amusement despite everything, for the joy amidst the pain. For the smiles, the giggles, and the concerned look. For the effort to bring comfort, of which even for the perpetrator is not given back. Sincerity. And for the dignity that is restored.

For the chance to be the listener of woes. The sharing of suffering, the stories of personal failures, the empathy. For the innocence, even if  it is a mere illusion, and the feeling of having a companion in the sea of troubles. For the play.

For the ironic friendship which have lasted despite constraints. The humor, the laughter, the things one cannot even talk about with other people. The physical bullying that normal people would render brutal, that which even strengthened both parties. Most especially for the subconscious understanding, with which the other has extended so much support as to even help out for mere survival of the other. One cannot live without.

For the darkest endeavours into the vast depths of emotions. The similar journey into a winding path of pain, agony, and what is all called reality. For the guidance, and the disillusionment from the ivory tower of ignorance to the painful truth of experience. For the unwavering, silent faith in What Is. The paradox of the light shining on the way and the darkness that creeps into the innermost vacuum of the soul.

For the mere presence of perfection. Splendor, grandeur, everything. For a chance at love.

Things change. Life remains the same. The wanderer has accepted his fate. The storyteller bows down with gladness. The poet puts down his pen. The scientist studies the world. The philosopher gazes at the sky once more. The realist steers the boat.

The writer hopes that his audience will understand what was written, as the sculptor murmurs a hearty “Thank you. Very much”.

Endless

I define human actions, future events, and chains of consequences. I see through hearts and minds, and i weave upcoming occurrences through the fabric of human interdependence. I send notions into action, and I choose the path of the universe itself. I am destiny.

I am the boundary of the vast unknown and life. I send souls to rest, and I pick dying candles into the places where they are headed to. I am a simple and timely visitor, yet my realm is hidden until I come. The living fear me, but the wise understand my existence. I am death.

I float in the world of possibilities. In the merging of minds through the slumber of should I create oracles and visions and phantoms of what can be. The endless labyrinth of alternate realities slip through my hand, as the sands of fantasy linger and disappear with waking. I am dream.

I am the icon of reality, as things created disappear. All of the universe are in constant change as I choose new forms soon to prevail. Humans loathe me, yet I maintain existence through the balance of movements. With my sill things perish, yet this simply makes room for the new. I am destruction.

Fires are my favourite, as I kindle spirits and put motion into human live. I am purpose, I am reason, I am the essence of humanity. With my will the world is under my control. I flow through the innermost chambers of one's heart, as I give meaning to life itself. I am desire.

I am eternal pain, I am suffering itself. I am the darkest entity of intelligence. I look out of mirrors of the unlucky, of the oppressed, and of the lonely. I cut off trees of alternate realities, as I block the paths of dilemma and create blank stares of disillusionment. I am despair.

I live by myself, as people think they do. I am the chaos of logic, the order of randomness. I am chance inside the unrestricted mind, as I dance in the vast skies of the unbounded consciousness. I am loss of control, I am the speeding kite in outer space. I am delirium.

Will, existence, reality, substance, hatred, hope, sanity, the governing aspects of the human mind at hand. Anthropomorphic metaphors of universal themes, they are the endless beacons of the conscious existence. Each with eternal power and unbounded obligation, the symbols now speak and reveal a message.




Will you bow down and be our servant, or face our challenge and be our heir?

Fireflies

    To fly like a particle in the vast space of the universe, what existence is that? To move in the surreal fabric of time and eternity, what purpose would it serve? To glow in the vast realm of darkness, what kind of life would that be?

    What kind of existence would this be?

    In the interweaving of pluralities and idiosyncrasies, there is a united doubt as to what is what and why. The truth, the ideals, both words have blurred due to cultural diffusion and social revolutions. And the philosophers are bothered.

    From a worm's-eye view the entropic problems are massive and overwhelming. Societal deconstruction and behavioral liberation create a pandemic wave of dissatisfaction and genuine poverty. Sociologists are alarmed.

    Parallel histories have drawn up cyclic motions of distress and catastrophe. Even the physical world is crumbling down into a runaway reaction mechanism of climate instability, biological decline and resource scarcity. Scientists shake their heads.

    What, then, would this pathetic chain of events lead to? The downward spiral seems to lead to absolute despair, towards the bottomless abyss coined “hell”. The “End of the World”, isn't it? Or perhaps the end of this world, out of the many worlds that has so far been imagined? What is the answer? What definitely was the question? Why?

    The firefly flew out of its hiding place. It is night, and it is time. It flashes out its signal, it send bursts of yellowish green light while whirling in characteristic flight. Where would the other be? The insect dances, not knowing any better, as if the whole world is watching its majestic performance. The dance of nature.

    Indeed it has an audience, but it is a man whose gaze is blank and empty. As he sees the faint glowing thing, he is amused. Bio-luminescence, the conversion of chemical energy into light with the smallest amount of heat! Cold light, spectacular biological process, the audience stares at the fleeting streaks of green glow. Yet he sees it from a distance, his appreciation fading into the dark nothingness. He is somber once more.

    Yet, as if acting on cue, the firefly went nearer to him. It danced, it swayed, it went closer. Its light got brighter, and its dance seemed more slow and deliberate. And then, as if caught in the alien trance, he extends his arms and opens his palm. The insect drew closer, then landed in his finger.

    The light! In his finger!

    He was frozen, looking in disbelief at the little creature that rests in his hands. What had brought it to him? Was it tired of flying, or is it part of the drama? The insect wriggled, but to his amazement it did not fly away. It was just there, glowing on and off like a living Christmas light.

    And he marveled at its beauty.

    Yes, it is the problem of globalization that contrasting cultures are bashing each other. Racism, discrimination, exchange of insults between two groups who claim that one is a falsity of the other, all these things trouble everyone. Who should we follow? To whom should we believe? Yet to determine which is right or which is wrong does not matter in the end; it is to appreciate the goodness in each, and the diversity of the whole that is essential.

    Many people are suffering the pains of the world, and yet there also exists those who have been given much. This does not mean, however, that the current world is simply unfair and the society is to be abolished. In perspective each individual has been given the same, it is a matter of seeing what one has in abundance. And what one is in excess and the other in need, one gives. Thus the value interdependence arises, and what is important is not that differences should be abolished but the inner selfishness.

    The Earth is a large entity, yet it should be known that it is finite. It is a self-operating machine that acts in accordance to the laws of matter and physical existence, and what is put upon it the Earth simply responds in return. For centuries man fought its way against nature to survive, yet it has now reached a point that he should fight his own creations for survival; and at times man fights man for personal gains. Therefore how can man survive? He should first restore himself. If man finally understands why he must act, he would stop thinking of himself. And if he did, he would be able to cooperate with others. And once he understands his own machinations he gains insight as to the workings of nature itself,  to which he is part of. And thus he can restore the Earth at last.

    And how is all these possible?

    Because man hopes.

    The man was still gazing when he sensed that the insect was about to go. He looked at it more closely, as if seeping the light into himself. But he realized that it wasn't needed at all, that he was just reminded of a fact he knew all along. And as, at last, the firefly flew out, the man stares, marveling at how the tiny being can dissolve the darkness, his darkness.

Tribute

                            Bowed down

                            Across the audience of the world

                            Declaring existence

It is I

        The I that speaks

        Yes,

            It spoke many times

            It breathed the marred air

            And talked itself

    It has been with the world

                - it is one with it

    It is one with humanity

    And the unity of entirety

                            It speaks in behalf

        Of itself

                            It speaks of the goodness of life

“The gift bestowed upon man

Gratefulness, gratitude, silence

        Companions

    It is impossible to separate unity

    Yet it is unpredictable to meet diversity

Grateful of the

        Time

        Friendship

        Hope

The impossibility of existence with absence”

    And it speaks

                            On how others provide

                            Each and every need

            The nurturing and caring and support

            The first shards of loyalty

            The bonds through mere fun

            The roots of common interest

            The shared identity

            The interaction

            The opportunity to know

                Self and self-sacrifice

The chance to be

                            Loved.

Ubermensch

It is not pity. It is not sympathy. It is not a feeling of hopelessness. It is inspiration.

There are thousands of people who live by the outskirts of the standard of living, continuing daily life in the most unimaginable way. This, at least, is in the view of those living the “normal” (or better yet “pampered”) life. Day by day they undertake the same round of chores, each of which is of considerable workload. In an average household, virtually everyone has a work to do (this may only exclude very young infants), and this depends upon the capacity of each member of the family. What should be noted, however, is that the job requires the full capability of the individual, i.e. if a person can barely lift a load, he or she should lift the load repeatedly and as often as possible. Such is not inherent in the job, but the need to earn enough imposes a psychological rule to each worker. Thus each person is not really required to climb a kilometer up a mountain, but the need to plant as much crops as possible pushes every farmer to do so. And they do it every day without cease.

Another aspect of their lives is the simplicity of their ways of living. They only have to have food to eat, water to drink, clothes to wear, and people to talk to. They do not fuss over what food is brought up in the table, and their appetite is one which is relative to the amount of food available and to the number of people who are eating. They do not and refuse to know the dirtiness and possible contamination that accompanies their source of water, relying on their strengthened bodies to combat such illnesses that their water bring. They vaguely know about fashion, and if they do they do so only to praise their favorite actors and actresses. Their sense of style is one which takes into account the wear and tear that their work is associated with. Therefore with their indifference on the first three needs they make it up on the fourth one.

As “working beasts” they are surprisingly more humane than many so-called “cultured” people. They do not read self-help books on happiness, but they enjoy life to the fullest. They never knew formal etiquette and the “appropriate social behavior” but their meekness and courtesy (which is the heart of all social graces) is more than enough. They never went to universities, but their knowledge on both the workings of their communities and the details of their job qualifies them as scientists, political thinkers, and philosophers. They may rarely have church services, bible studies, or even a bible itself, but their unfathomable faith which sustains them through such hardships makes them holy. They may not know the luxuries of the world, but by doing so they have transcended reality. They are, in every way, awesome.

Now disaster has struck, destroying areas of both the poor and wealthy alike. They grieve for what happened and they lie helpless as their possessions are stripped to nothing. The wealthy will pull out their cash and simply repair or replace the things that were damaged or lost. The poor are left out, seeking refuge upon those who are unharmed and are willing to help. The wealthy may complain about their favorite car getting crushed or their playstation games getting corrupted or their laptops getting busted and thus no internet for some time. The poor, however, has to deal with the loss of shelter, job, clothing, food and water supply, all of which they cannot afford to replace. Is this absolute despair? Is this the end of the world for them? Is this a great unfairness of things, with the wealthy having a simple “loss-of-replaceable-things” event while the poor have a huge catastrophe? No, it is not. For them, this is another task that they have to undergo with. Yes, they would have to deal with a mountain of troubles, but haven't they conquered such things every day? And because the whole community suffers the same loss, wouldn't it be easier for them, now that they can do it together? Thus it is not the loss of their things that matters to them, but the welfare of their neighbors and relatives. They mourn for those who were washed away, drowned while escaping or simply trapped inside their houses while the water rose. And they do not see the sadness of the washed out community, but the glimmer of hope from the volunteer workers and fellow refugees alike.

Aren't they awesome?