Tagged: poem

Love and disparity

I’m capable of getting to know you, I am human, I know what we feel.  I can be emphatic; I can summon feelings from different memories. We come from different backgrounds, we’ve been raised on different books and we now enjoy different lifestyles; lifestyles which society has tried with great effort to make incompatible. We’ve been fed with the same ideas since social interaction emerged: there is a difference among human beings, and that difference can be traced back to one’s social group, economic capability and race. I do believe in difference, but difference expressed as authenticity and uniqueness, the intrinsic characteristic of being irreplaceable.   You may have had or not a wonderful family, a beautiful childhood and some easy going teenage years. Whichever the combination of ups and downs throughout your life, every experience, every moment, every person you have met, loved and admired has left a mark in your heart, your memory and your flesh. But you are more than that; you are much more than a compilation of past events. You are what you do with your freedom, the choices you’ve made for good and evil. You have developed a way of thinking, a way of looking at things in the world, diminishing or accentuating your passion for life and humanity.

You can be alone, have your space and time of your own. But you cannot be lonely, since you will be fighting against your social nature and loneliness is a dark hole in which you can stay for as long as you want, but you can only emerge selfish and unable to love. You need true human interaction, not trading merchandise, buying or selling, but casual conversations, intimacy, the beauty in sharing and creating knowledge, open up the door for someone, doing the right things and doing them right. Every experience is good experience as long as you look for the lesson beyond this or that event: embrace mistakes, learn empirically and have a laugh about it. Great times and horrible situations happen senselessly, they are the product of life’s maternal indifference about individual existence. Life, if life can be, it could only be careless, indifferent and unpredictable. So use it, that time lapse between birth and death, as an experiment. Travel the world of your internal being, explore your thoughts, your beliefs. Find your principles and values, your moral grounds, which come from what you value from yourself and the life that surrounds you. Those surroundings are building blocks of what you are made of today, they can be constraints or limits to your life, but they will never define who you are and who you try to become, they cannot define your existence. “Blaming” life and your surroundings for being who you are is an awful excuse, and I am sure you don’t need to hear another story of the underdog enjoying a happy ending.

This not a love letter, this not an invitation: this is a bet against destiny, this is me telling you that there is no other way in which you and I could be together just because life as we know it has being impeding love and friendship arising from randomness , which is going against the nature of life’s unpredictability.  Don’t try to stabilize and standardize your existence and place great effort in finding bricks to build your comfort house; your life can be shattered in the blink of an eye. In all the infinite array of possibility, this is just another option, another risk, another choice; we could be each others’ choices, each others’ option and each others’ risky, safe bet. This may or may not be “meant to be” but nothing has been made to match or fit, the pieces of any of life’s puzzles need to be polished, its sharp edges softened  and still perfection is absent. But who needs perfection, allegedly something unknown to the human intelligibility? I do not want perfection when we can have a bond of happiness uniting each other’s absolute existence as human beings. You and I develop ourselves through spontaneous evolution, through change and the way we react and adapt. You and I cannot be, we are being. And as I am being, this time I chose being different, I chose being with you. I am fighting against destiny, but fighting along the will of free individuals, your will. Love and friendship have a spark of chemistry, a leap of faith, a hint of erratic coincidence and the most complex simplicity in the most psychotically imperfect amalgam. What if you and I was not “us” because we did not take our chances?

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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?

Within

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.