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As I pass this familiar street

Never has I been so keen with the houses

The architecture, build and space

Like a vision of our future

Confined and safe inside those walls and bricks

Of stones and unchanging wills,

Of ourselves and of promises kept,

A vow, of passing of times sailing the sea

to eternity.

Nonetheless, these houses

Are only containers to the very thing

We’ve built.

It is not love that made us vulnerable

To invincibility, nor the essence

of our very being that coexist with one another.

It is us that was once were two

Separated by distance and lived as fools.

Star-crossed lovers that defied the rules

Unpacking the words and turning them to visible hues.

Everybody can live in a house

But these things we dreamed of,

We already have the chance

Not only to live in a house

But a home – a hope to shine upon.


Same Formula, Different Variables

Constant, unimaginable
Same flow, different road.
The traffic, the lights
The intersection and signs
Are all the same but the day.

Different cars, faces and voices
Echoes bounce back
Different waves, intensity and direction.
The breeze is still but never the same.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow
We walk the same path and follow
The same moments of the past
And thinking the moments would last

But it’s the same thing all over again
Like the hands of the clock on the wall
Circling and circling ’til the end
Telling the same, right but different call.


The Power of Locks

And the world is making a huge fuss about it. Whether your parents, friends or even your lovely pets.

The unnatural. The taboo. The spaces that consist behind the closed doors. The restricted. The forbidden. The don’ts. The what ifs. The unseen, invisible and the unexplained. The monster under the bed.

The mysteries of life is what fires up the curiosity of people and therefore adds vigor and color to the everyday life. We are tired of what we know and see if what we are experiencing is truly what life truly is. And yet, such thing as what I’ve just said is what you already knew and probably bored out of your sofa, reading this post. Probably, you don’t have a sofa but this is how predictable the world may seem.

 

What use is a box if it is empty? Most probably to fill in with new things that could fill the space and meet its capacity. However there is a completely different box. Unopened and in the darkest corner of your basement. It is no ordinary box. It is a black metal box and has a lock and can only be unlocked with a certain set of numbers. It may contain several things you can think of based from the dimensions of the box. It can be huge, small but it doesn’t matter because it all depends on what you can make out of it. The set of numbers are unknown. The thing or things that could be inside is unknown. It could be anything. It could be nothing. But you ask yourself, “What great thing could be possibly locked inside this box?” but in the back of your head, something whispers that it could be empty. The lock is deceiving you. The limit is what makes your mind go wild. But your mind is curious and it disregarded the possibility of the nothingness inside the locked box. Because we are never contented with anything empty and we always put things inside that we can think of that will fit.

Let us try and open the box. You see a 4-digit number lock. The possibilities of each set of number are now crowding your mind. Like endless spoiled and impatient little children waiting in line, screaming for their respective turns but which will you choose first? It doesn’t matter and you began entering random set of numbers with the hopes to unlock the box. You have entered the trial and error stage. Your impatience is growing. Another number set. One after the other. You wait for the click–the signal that you succeeded unlocking the box. Silence. Wrong. You try for another set of numbers. In this situation, you see your masochistic side. Your patience is wearing thin. You cannot open the box, yet you try. You are tired. You lost too much time unlocking the box. What is inside, became your obsession.

So I leave the decision to you. Now, as long as there is still time left for you to enjoy the remainder of your life. You can hide the box and leave it alone for the rest of your life and go back to where you left off, or you can try and open the box because you still cling to the hope you have. The latter has consequences. Severe ones. But one thing is for sure: you cannot bring back the time you have used to open the box. Still, the possibility of it being empty is not ruled out but it is not what you believe. There is something.

Take the first option, leave and forget about everything then stop reading this post right now and go back to your own life.

Take the second option, read on and prepare for the consequences.

I had opened the box and the number is 2710.

The box is empty.

What use is a box if it is empty? Most probably to fill in with new things that could fill the space and meet its capacity. However this is a completely different box. You found a box that is full of nothing. This box took almost half of your time being alive and you have nothing. But this is the only box you have right now. This is now in your possession. Everything that you could have been at this point in time could have been different. But you chose the box. The empty metal box. Which has nothing. You found your life. You found what you are looking for. And time has never deprived you of the chance to start all over again.

 

It is in itself what we could not see or obscured from our vision and understanding is what makes the little neurons in our brains ignite and floor the gas pedal to power up the engine of Hope. To venture the unknown, the future and the possible past that are never truly there. The futility of men to seek such water-less trenches deep below the grounds of sanity, into the dark, engulfing void where severe consequences and uncertainty lie. The risks are hanged and weighed in the balance with a continuous increase to topple the stack of what is at stake, what you bargained which consists of the things that you loved most. It is where man finds the entrance to madness.

Down the rabbit-hole where Alice faced the unnatural is the place where we turn the tables, close the curtains and tread to the un-walkable path. It is not about courage. It is not about bravery. It is not about safety and certainty but a question that has to be answered, “Are you mad enough to give up all that you know to replace them with something…exquisitely sophisticated?”

Remove the doubts and lies; take all of the irregularities, the chaos, entropy, discord and everything that can possibly lead to destruction and severing of ties. Of all that is left is an uneventful life, place and time. A colorless world woven out of the true meaning. Without obscurity and thinking. Reasoning and imagination will leave the world and all we have there is and all that our brains will do is to kill every brain cell in side of it because we have come to the time of a collective acceptance of information. No questions asked, the stimuli aren’t enough, the mind is in deep slumber and the information itself has grasped and hold our brains to empower an idea. The evolution of ideas some of us may recognize as Memetics. An unseen revolution in an entirely different realm of reality whereas the generators of ideas are now being ruled by its creation.

Face the consequences. Locks are deceptions and discovery.


29 October 1936

Dearie Ann, 

 

I haven’t heard from you in almost a week. I hope you’re doing fine because I’m not. I’ve been having trouble breathing lately. I don’t know why and what this is or is it even a serious disease? I’m not sure. You know I’m not fond with the doctors. They’re too bossy in terms of drug prescriptions and in almost everything about things that I must and must not do. I can take care of myself. I’m not doing anything stressful lately so maybe this is just normal in aging. Though mother’s a nurse, I don’t talk much with her. Sometimes I just act normal or leave slowly from her sight before my panic attack kicks in. She won’t understand me. She won’t. She’ll always blame my writing and rant about why would I stay up all night writing my novel and not do it during the day. It’s really disappointing since she’s my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if some writers share this problem with me. I mean, the way she’s so focused about health that she’s gradually forgetting about me. She doesn’t care about me. She cares about my well-being and from my point of view, those two are different from each other. It just increases the gaps between us and the fact that I can view a single thing from several different perspectives suggests that I should be the one to understand. And I hate it.

Sometimes I wish I could just go back to my ordinary life. And maybe you’re tired of hearing this over and over again but…I don’t know. I just can’t unsee things that are not there. Everything around me just creates its own new layer of meaning. As if I can see through things and I am not sure if what I see is what it really is or is it just what I want it to be. It’s like everything has gone personal.

I keep rereading your letters. Every night and it’s what keeps me awake and I may have memorized a dozen of them. I just want to hear your voice over and over and it is what I hear everytime I read them. I just want you to be here. I want to talk with you because I know you’ll understand. It’s been months since we last met. I know you’re busy. I just want to know you’re safe. If you’re well or are you losing that blush on your cheek, hell it’s driving me insane. Sometimes, I look at the stars at night and think about if you’re seeing the same pattern that I’m seeing  And I heard that tomorrow is going to be a full moon. And it’s your birthday. You may receive this letter later than I expect but I just greeted you a day earlier. I guess that makes sense.

Along with the envelope of this letter are poems I’ve written for you everytime I take a break from writing. You know it’s a relief to pour my emotions that block my mind to a paper. And it’s all about you. I just hope you like it and take it as my birthday present for you. Though I may not have much anything to say but feel free to find it inside these poems. I hope you can see what I refused to write and you might be amazed about the things that you can find but is never truly there.

 

Yours truly, 

Cheshire

 

P.S.

I can write more long letters if you will. It’s just I have nothing to reply with.

 


Receding In A Negative Narrative

It’s not the time to seek refuge

to the fulfilling peace brought by razors

and delicately harness the pain from my thoughts

until I cry out your name in anguished voice.

 

The words are cutting deep

to my chest and the heavens felt

how pathetic my state have become

yet you’re an angel surrounding me

inside this hole of uncertainty.

 

My life is hanging on a balance to support

the weight you’re placing on one side

as those feelings weigh a ton

and I spring upwards to the sky

and fell down with scraped knees and broken bones.

 

But I wrote this piece in cheap words

to better exemplify the pain

along with the sound of the rain

and its waters running along to the path of your name.

And it’s not easy to see

how everything I feel could be

resonating inside your head

and realize how drastic I could get.

 

But I keep hoping that I’d see you again

and if the seraphs forbid, you would sweetly look into my eyes

and slowly melt the thing I held close to my limbs

and quickly look away after seeing my deluded dreams

and I would never utter a word.

I’ll walk past by knowing that

second glances don’t mean anymore

unless that it’s something that I am yearning for

such as that of those pair of eyes you own imbued with glamour.

 

You could have me as I am.

As of someone that would be there to understand

and I may not have anything that most men have in common

but I’m always be here for a shoulder to lean on.

How I can always be an open novel

that you could rip and tear its pages

that doesn’t care if you broke its spine–

or have its cover resigned

along with the title that is screaming of more than just words

passing meaningless to your course–

that could be sold in a cheap price on a store

and leave me for someone that deserves you more

as to how a child replaces his toys, outgrowing them of bore.

 

These dying words shall tell you how I keep struggling

to keep pacing with the signs you’re making

visible to my heart’s blind eyes

impaired by the night’s confusing lights

that once led me to your presence

and turn me to this monster’s statement of defense

as a story no one could ever understand

and possibly the last thing I could say

before I start to let go of your hand,

because the music never stops from making you sway

from the melodies only you know how to play.

But I’ll keep listening to the pattern of the tone

and mess with the chords

and compose my own

and sing to you the madness

you won’t forget to ask me how to perform.

 

Amidst of all these pain, I’ll stay

even I’ll live with a life, forever feeling gray

of these things that are purely inside my mind

won’t cease to manifest as you crawl back and forth in this head

that could shatter almost everything that I own

because I am used in to being torn

and after all, I’m just a lost boy

with scraped knees and broken bones.


The Surge of an Outcry

It’s a very tiring day even though the the Sunday sun has not yet shown itself. Dawn is fast approaching and he is lost in his own thoughts. His chest barely giving him enough air for every breath he takes that would suffice the need of his hungry mind. And on the dark corner of his room he sits, embracing his legs and placing his chin on his knees. 

The blanket and pillows are sprawled all across his bedroom floor. The faint moonlight coming from the open window is sending chilly wisps of air inside that empty room. Inside that emptiness where he choose to stay.

Calming yet, it bothers him. The peaceful atmosphere bothers him because he is afraid that he might be dead. Even for a second his mind cannot comprehend the sterile gaze of that pair of eyes looking at him. Veiled beneath the mask of void of darkness around him. He is not inside his bedroom. He is not in his house but somewhere in this world where he has the key. A place where the sun is silent–his mind.

He knows that it’s better to lock the doors. It’s better to shut the noise of silence that haunts him in his sleep for along with every strand of sound that he hears, came a whisper. A whisper so loud that can shake the walls and ceilings of his head.

Fear is creeping in. He had to stop the screaming. He closed his eyes. He covered his ears. His legs are trembling with every tone. His lips are shivering from the cold and the intangible sight of the unknown.

The door shook. Whatever is outside, it is trying to break in. The locks can’t hold the force of something he cowers to face. Streaks of light comes from the gap of the shaking door from its hinges and it’s starting to reveal his hidden secrets. Slowly being unconcealed by the power from the other side. Transparency is looming above him. Eating the place he crafted using his memories. The air he breathes is starting to diminish. The chilling sensation began to warm itself from the presence of the thing behind the door and it never ceases to try and force his way in.

Despite the sound that could surely echo miles away, he was sure he’s the only one who can hear it. No rescue would come. Just him. Alone. Cold.

Reluctantly, he builds up the courage to stand. With every effort, he tries to shake the feeling of throwing up. His insides are slowly being eaten by the malevolence being inflicted by the mysterious. The floor began to feel like a quicksand. With every step, an inch is given for him to sink into the slime of dirt.

A voice inside his head tells him that he’d never make it. His face will be buried beneath and be forgotten through time. His thoughts start to sink to madness. A type of paranoia that’s unbinding him from death. Letting it glow and light a spark of hope.

And as his eyes go deeper, he caught a faint glimpse of light shower his room. A silhouette of a lady in white sank her hand and grabbed his own. A smile so dazzling he dare not to tell. How she managed to rescue a soul and rest him to his death.

 


Espoir

Nobody understands.

Everyday in his life are memories etched in every self-inflicted scars where the it wants it to be.

“It feeds with pain,” he says “So let them indulge upon me. I am their master.”

Years passed and he is tired of crying anymore. He is too damaged to cry. Now, it only seems that pain has abandoned him. Numb from grief of everyday’s fucked-up disorder. A mouth sealed shut, not wanting to be wrong, nor be heard for he himself was a terrible mistake the world has to offer. A rock sitting by the pavement. Invisible, behind those smiles. Eyes longing for attention and understanding. Yet, he sits by his bedroom window, looking at the constellations and counting his dead dreams and for another time, he takes again the razors and proceed to let himself feel again. To feel in the midst of numbness. To show these four walls how he struggles to survive in this world he cannot comprehend.

Loneliness has cast a void upon him. A hole that can never be filled. A bottomless pit. It is the place of solace where time does not exist. Just another abstraction of nature that consumes insanity.

Dreams are the only thing that keeps him going. As a small being in this world, he knows, he can make a change. He can change. He had fallen countless of times. Hit the ground with bloody forehead and lips. His wrists trailing with crimson ink.

He caught a drip of blood with his fingers and wrote on the walls of his mind,

“This madness too shall cease and will forever be buried under the depths of my consciousness. I know this all too shall pass and when the time comes, I will be ready to break this walls and shout to the world how I could turn this planet on the tips of my fingers and hold it against the galaxies to show how a little trash could be an asset to this reality. I have lived and will continue living for tomorrow. I have broken the chains that binds me to this rotting Hell.”

As he wrote the last words, the space has begun to crumble, falling under the vast void surrounding him. He stood on an empty space, where he is among the stars of the universe and its alluring beauty. So he started to make what has become.

Because perception is everything.


Falling Without A Parachute

Image

Tonight as my pen cries with ink

Along with this heart that refuses to speak

These eyes, since you left, never slept

You’re in my mind – and it’s thinking way too deep

 

We talk without sound, not even a whisper

Your voice was unheard of

Yet a sweet thing to think of

As I lay here and hear your emotions thunder

 

It was not for me to receive

Nor am I worthy of your kindest glance

After all it was him whom you chose to believe in

And I hate that I don’t stand a chance

 

It led me to find what’s good in me

As the voice in my head replies, “What a pity.”

I have nothing, no one but myself

Whose love is not enough to maintain the sanity in this head

 

I just want someone to care

And I wanted it to be you and no one else

If approved by fate, I’ll be undeniably happy

For someone finally start to notice me

 

Sometimes, I tend to create illusions

But not dreams that are possible

I am grasping for every solution

On how to make you look through me – my greatest delusion

 

I won’t say goodbye

I can’t say it’s the end

I’ve prepared a lot of surprise

It’s a stand I want to defend

 

Before the day ends, I have a wish

Stay with me, even just in my dreams

For tonight, I want to hold your hand

Hug you under the moon, dance with the stars

And the galaxies are the witness

As I confess

And gently give your forehead a kiss.