Tagged: Art

For it being a game of light and shadow

For it being a game of light and shadow, deceit after deceit, the secret conceals within, and prevails. They choose to bring forth to sunlight what must be seen, that which needs to shine to nourish the soul, to avoid the silence. Silence speaks the truth, unpleasant, crude, for the silent ambiance is a valley of death, a tumultuous agora: there is no place to hide away from oneself.

Virtuous in disguise, mastering the masquerade, bestow the elegance of trickery, not bewitchery: the artifice of deception. For it being a game of light and shadow, behold truth in the shadow casted, the lie dances bright, for what is to be seen is to be flaunt with excess, the hidden buried in the deep dark, amongst denial. The Heavens so unreachable for the infamous hypocrite: the chameleonic persona blends, morphed by guilt, shame and wealth. The stealth mastered by the sneak of the serpent, who creeps and hisses ankle-high, awaits, for the vulnerable feet and stings and seizes with deadly poisonous teeth; the trust is now shattered, the crystal we thought transparent is now scattered at our feet, cutting them with bloody wounds.

Just as dim light brings sight to the one blindfolded with a veil of darkness, too much light can blind with brightness. Is it not life a game of light and shadow? For one is to see not directly into the sun, but vow the head for sunlight to shine upon. Are we not so vulnerable? Can we not challenge the heavenly stars, Nature roars against humane domestication: the wild-beast rejoices in freedom, dies if incarcerated. Fear not the world outside then, for the physical planetarium holds the reality shown by sunlight, is there truth beyond lit horizon, through the darkest dark?  The real is filtered by the mind, the power of it bends: transforms.

The mind gives birth to the unreal, like a river that flows incessantly, thoughts flourish, the fertile land of utopia. The wild stampedes in realistic marathon, the unreal materializes in lucidity, faithful science is the creed to believe.  For reality is handcrafted, malleable beyond one’s knowledge, encapsulated only in time and space. For it that can be thought, but shines not by the light of the stars above, is it real? Is it that we live in a theatrical plot, the light the puppeteer and we the puppets?

The moment we project ourselves to the neighbor as what we are not, from shadow to light, are we not gifted magicians? Are we not performers?



Chimes and the melodious hymn of the wind, from sea to summit, sea-breeze to freeze, penance at ease. For it travels eternally, nomadic, bound to the endless exodus. Each passage a gate of tears, with exit comes renewal:  insensible, irascible vendetta. Veni, vidi, vinci.

Hails not to rampage the forthcoming whisper, for it comes in peace, submissive, crying to be welcomed at their dwellings, close to their hearts; he cries not for help, help him not. For he comes and soon will vanish, the like of warriors for battle: the senseless inertia of war.

The power of thought dilutes in agony, forsaken like the orphan, bound to temporary ostracism, for it is blindly traded for any sort of martial practicality. Spears of discontent, swords of bloody rage, “Ravish thy enemy” cry the numerous pundits, to stir the pointless urge for violence. The mind’s energy is drained for the body to calm the thirst with drench of vitality.

Envy not, pity for them, for it came and they welcomed the alien. Not the prodigal son, the outsider, their merciful façade brought upon him, nurturing and healing and caring for the “hero” and the needed; treacherous feat, fooling no more than themselves. For them willing to embrace the unknown, be willing to incarnate the torment of fate.

So it speaks, the zephyr, for it has the urge to be heard and so it sings, for them to listen and tune, their last. The tepid breath brings tranquility and the ease of troubled minds, no one worried, but when blizzard, mayhem unleashed upon the merriest, the fellowship crumbles, the one is left in havoc, mare’s nest of horror.

For the worst of evil to impersonate, it once laid helpless in maternal womb. If bosom to be relinquished, the new-born havoc explored the deepest of fears, withdrawal of the nurturing squirt threatened survival, his life held by a thin line, a pair of silk hands.

The aftermath, time and space of backward thought, reflection. They harvested the deadly poisonous ivy with their most precious beverages. They celebrated the coming of their executioner; they had welcomed their tormentor as that of a mighty savior. The cause of the smile across the visage is now a wound in the deep, a visible scar in the heart, the hollowness of a thousand pairs of dead eyes.

Calls not to disbelief in trustworthy causes: it calls to caution. Calls not to squander one’s confidence, to love the neighbor not with restraints but limitless, never to augur in prophesy or presage. Yet, everything is to come, as probable not unthinkable, as viable not unimaginable. Who is to know the power of the once so vulnerable, who is to know the evil within the once befriended?

 For it is never to say what lies ahead, for the now is much more than reality can grasp.