You’re sad because you’re sad. It’s psychic. It’s the age. It’s chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep.
Well, all children are sad but some get over it. Count your blessings. Better than that, buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet. Take up dancing to forget.
Forget what? Your sadness, your shadow, whatever it was that was done to you the day of the lawn party when you came inside flushed with the sun, your mouth sulky with sugar, in your new dress with the ribbon and the ice-cream smear, and said to yourself in the bathroom, I am not the favorite child.
My darling, when it comes right down to it and the light fails and the fog rolls in and you’re trapped in your overturned body under a blanket or burning car,
and the red flame is seeping out of you and igniting the tarmac beside you head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are.
And then, after a while, you realize that the end will always be death. Then, you realize that all your efforts, thoughts, and accomplishments were useless. All this trying and crying and laughing. Who’s going to remember? Who would want to remember those bitter arguments that led to nowhere? The awkward silence? Or the times when would always fall asleep together in a café while doing Chemistry homework? Or the day you tried to teach me how to swim and failed desperately and how I almost drowned you or maybe, the times you gave me piggyback rides because my legs had such an odd tendency to fall asleep at such unpredictable times? So, why do I try? Why do you try? Why are we both trying? We’re going to die someday. Maybe I’ll be buried in a beautiful mahogany casket or maybe, I will have my ashes scattered at your front door. Hah! Ha ha ha. Don’t say you didn’t laugh. I know you just did… I hope your death won’t occur tomorrow but I do know and I predict that you will die after me because my death will be beautiful and I will be young. I will get tired of living and I will have nothing to live for but it won’t be because of you. No, I am too strong to let a boy like you to mess with me. Not to that extent. Maybe this extent? Perhaps.
“Wouldn’t it be better to turn life into poetry rather than to make poetry from life? And cannot poetry have as its primary objective, rather than the creation of poems, the creation of poetic moments?”—Octavio Paz
I don’t care if you don’t believe in God but please don’t make fun of others who do. Every time someone does, no matter how closethey think we are, I immediately lose 99% of the respect I have for them. Granted, we could still be “friends” but I promise you that whatever we have will be shattered. A slight comment to that sensitive subject, I believe, is best not uttered at all. What you say reflects how you view your life and though I accept different opinions, I don’t believe in unnecessary antagonism.
He was her love. The reason she was here and not elsewhere. What happened on that night, those many years ago, when she was a child, and when she was abandoned, alone, bruised, and buffeted by the world, only he knew. Only he understood. This devotion she held for him was not wavering. Those secret glances and every single word uttered to her were not forgotten. She kept it in the depths of her heart. These feelings, the very same ideas and thoughts that came upon her incessantly and without a single warning, they troubled her deeply. Her affections for him, she often wondered, was it all a mere product of her past? but the more she saw of him, the more he talked to her, and the more he complimented her, the stronger her feelings grew. Still, she felt indignant knowing that her feelings were unnoticed. Or that it was unreciprocated.
He was a man she dearly looked upon for. He was her savior and the sole subject of her strong affections. She loved him devotedly and tenderly. But he did not know. Or was she so obvious that he knew? Her brows furrowed and she turned away to the window. She was sitting down with a book in her hand as Nai sat beside her. He was doing the homework that she had written earlier quite diligently. Though she did not like to, her mind began to wonder and suddenly, she was thinking of him again.
Without anyone noticing, he appeared in front of her with that same cold look and those glasses that somehow made his eyes stand out. Tsukumo looked up and saw him. Her face kept its usual expressionless stare and in his deep baritone voice, he said, “Tsukumo. Do you have a second?”
She nodded and stood from her position. He waited until she was next to him before continuing his steps. When Tsukumo trailed behind, he would stop until she was alongside him once more. Tsukumo, of course, noticed this but she did not know why nor did she voice out a question. When they reached his office, Tsukumo entered first. He followed her before locking the door.
She turned to the source of that voice, that deep, velvet voice that eased her so easily. Before she could process anything, he moved to her and her breath became short. They were only a few inches away, with him leaning down to her. Was it her? Or did it feel like he was staring into her abysmal soul? Tsukumo, bless her heart, stared into him and watched his expression - it was so gentle, kind, and loving. Wait. Was she dreaming? He grabbed her face with a slight frustration in his countenance. Confused and unaware, Tsukumo managed to say, “Yes, Hirato?” This touch of his electrified every inch of her body She was so very awake. Without saying anything, he shook his head as if to coax his worried mind and he dropped his hand slowly. His mind filled with regret. “Patience,” he thought.
“There was something in your face. You can leave.”
(edit: I am so so so sorry for ruining this or going ooc but ld;agg I TRIED. T__T LOL I hope at least one person likes it! *v*
“The term ignorant is indeed perhaps an overstatement, implying as it does that something is known somewhere, whereas in reality we are not even sure of this: we in fact cannot aver with any degree of certainty that we are ignorant. Yet this is not so bad; we have at any rate kept our open-mindedness — that, at least, we may be sure that we have — and are not in any danger, or so it seems, of freezing into the pious attitudes of those true spiritual bigots whose faces are turned toward eternity and who therefore can see nothing.”—John Ashbery
WHEN have I last looked on The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies Of the dark leopards of the moon? All the wild witches, those most noble ladies, For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone. The holy centaurs of the hills are vanished; I have nothing but the embittered sun; Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
THERE is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are passing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing Because it was your prayer Recovered him upon the bed of death. For your sole sake — that all heart’s ache have known, And given to others all heart’s ache, From meagre girlhood’s putting on Burdensome beauty — for your sole sake Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom, So great her portion in that peace you make By merely walking in a room. Your beauty can but leave among us Vague memories, nothing but memories. A young man when the old men are done talking Will say to an old man, ‘Tell me of that lady The poet stubborn with his passion sang us When age might well have chilled his blood.’ Vague memories, nothing but memories, But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed. The certainty that I shall see that lady Leaning or standing or walking In the first loveliness of womanhood, And with the fervour of my youthful eyes, Has set me muttering like a fool. You are more beautiful than any one, And yet your body had a flaw: Your small hands were not beautiful, And I am afraid that you will run And paddle to the wrist In that mysterious, always brimming lake Where those What have obeyed the holy law paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged The hands that I have kissed, For old sake’s sake. The last stroke of midnight dies. All day in the one chair From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged In rambling talk with an image of air: Vague memories, nothing but memories.
I will never forget the apprehension that these days held when everything has been making me dubious of my future. I feel disquieted and this quandary I have managed to reach is bringing me down. Resentful, divided, and sullen. I should be happy. I have all that I have ever wanted and stomped about a year ago … but the plans and goals I carefully have made might not happen. It would be too selfish of me to just go on and fly and leave a mess behind.
I have prayed so hard to be at this crossroad and to have all that I have now. I have prayed and I am still praying.
But I need to so desperately. I need to find myself and have a chance at life. It doesn’t matter if I come back after three years, to study my Psy.D. here whilst working two or three jobs. I will find a way but even now, I am still holding to this small thread of hope that by the twenty-second, everything will be acquired and by the twenty-ninth, I would have already made a decision.
I don’t think I will ever forget how everything was in motion while I was in this state of anticipation and insecurity. But my dreams aren’t wavering.
My name is Marion G. I was born and raised in the soft, dusty countryside somewhere in the Philippines. The world, I believe, was neither blessed nor cursed on that hurricane, wind-storm filled day—September 20, 1992 to be exact. It was in a hospital is what my everyone told me. I was later referred to as ‘Meng’ because it was the name of the hurricane that approached the country during the hours my mother was painfully in labor. I was named after both my mother and father, in fact, my name and my entire being is an amalgamation of two human beings.
My early memories, I feel, consisted of sunny days, cloud particles, and pure indulgent acts. My father was away for most of the year, only with my family for a couple of months, as he worked in Alaska. But before that, before I was even born, my father started a bakery and my mother managed it. The spacious lot we lived in was always full of people, bread, and shiny things.
And though it seems like I’m bragging from this point on, I actually hate admitting that as a child I was always pampered. We had several maids and workers. I grew up ordering around several nannies and young maids who allowed me to get away with almost anything. I remember how I used to draw clothes that I wanted (because I was quite the da Vinci back then!) and mail them to my dad. There was also this four feet doll I called “Wendy” and later put on make-up by using markers on her face! I was always artistic, you know. I even scribbled everwhere in the gray walls despite my mother’s horror. I also remember how every birthday, I would receive a birthday card or two in place of my dad’s presence. And that, whenever my dad would finally come home, we would travel for four hours to Manila and hug him back the ride home and how I would run around the house hugging all the new clothes and toys he got for me. I remember screaming at my sister, Ana, and pulling at her hair and later laughing about the silly fight only ten minutes later or that time, when she fed me noodles and I was crying and screaming that I didn’t want the green specks in my soup. I remember fighting with my cousins and demanding they give back my Greenwich Pizza back or how I used to watch those very same cousins play my Nintendo64 and Playstation 1. When I think of my childhood, I look back to red and white checkered school uniforms, me representing Switzerland although my parents wanted me to appear as US, and me being the Queen for exactly a year and having my name up in the gymnasium wall (my parents won a money-contest pageant!).
But my life changed when I turned eight and it was revealed to me that we’re finally going to the US. I screamed with joy and then that Spring, I flew over countries and oceans and finally arrived to a radiant, snow-less Alaska. Where’s the snow? I asked.
Reflecting on the now does not imply relinquishing the future or forgetting the past: the present is the meeting place for the three directions of time. Neither can it be confused with facile hedonism. The tree of pleasure does not grow in the past or in the future but at this very moment. Yet death is also a fruit of the present. It cannot be rejected, for it is part of life. Living well implies dying well. We have to learn how to look death in the face. The present is alternatively luminous and sombre, like a sphere that unites the two halves of action and contemplation. Thus, just as we have had philosophies of the past and of the future, of eternity and of the void, tomorrow we shall have a philosophy of the present. The poetic experience could be one of its foundations. What do we know about the present? Nothing or almost nothing. Yet the poets do know one thing: the present is the source of presences.