Monday, April 13, 2009
Sunday, November 9, 2008
3 of blanks
Shells of blanks carry but any weight? I walked as now pausing to wonder if it does shift things or merely just seems to be. Since the flow is always unchanging, what we see here hardly matches what is but one can only gather the best of perception and assume. On that ground, all this could possibly be very wrong but even that is a subset of the previous point. I feel like a coward as I wait for for the "right" to come. All thoughts and words carry no bearing as they are still thoughts and words after all this time. But I lack, so much, to give this the push. Maybe what lies here is well beyond me. Best I can hope is to set the ball rolling. Maybe it will catch one day. If I am lucky I will live to see this come to be while strength still carries me, but I am doubtful.
The Vision is so powerful, and has brought us so far. It has made us so strong but at the same time, destroyed so much of who we are. It has let us see so much, so far, so deep beyond the mortal eyes. No regrets, true to the Vision.
So why does this feel so empty?
The Vision is so powerful, and has brought us so far. It has made us so strong but at the same time, destroyed so much of who we are. It has let us see so much, so far, so deep beyond the mortal eyes. No regrets, true to the Vision.
So why does this feel so empty?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
On the Racetrack of Existence...
Once came a vision of a racetrack, orange red, stretching all the way into the sunset, with white paint lines dividing in between; there are audience seats to the side, gradually melt down to grass plains. The entire humanity was on the racetrack, each person on a line of their own, each person running a speed of their own. Sometimes, by lapse of coincidence, certain people would cover distances together, they are acquaintances. But you see, each person has a different capability, some go faster, some go slower. And gradually, people run with distances between again. For periods of time, people run closer or further apart. But they run. They always run. For the road is the flux of life. It is always changing and humanity is always trying to keep up as a whole, and each person running to their full speed as they can.
But sometimes... Sometimes you meet someone running along your side. A smile, a whisper, a laugh. You can share the same vision of the sunset you're heading to, and your legs now seems light as a feather; the battery acid that was burning through your veins, the muscle ache and the fatigue bothers you no more. The things that worry you still worries you, but their weight on your chest and shoulders seems to have been halved, possibly even more. You feel like you can carry an extra weight of the world and still be perfectly fine. Her hair flutters in the wind, covering her eye in the most ridiculous way. She gives a funny look, possibly one of the most outrageous faces in the world, but it doesn't matter. You're the happiest guy in the world... So effortlessly...
You've been running for a while now. People you've seen walked by you, millions. People who've walked with you, thousands, and then some. And yet... none of them have come this close, have so easily lifted you up through vast distances. Just being there, the sensation of perfection. Where everything feels so right. A connection straight through you where no one has got to before. A skeptic, you were always one; but if ever the idea of the one was proved, you know where to look.
Right then and there, you take a better look around... The race is still a part of life, a necessity, a priority. You understand that, but at the same time, you can't help feeling that this is insignificant. There are always people faster than you, and there are always people slower than you. And your strength is limited. And you know that when your legs give in and your knees can carry you no more, you will retreat to the seat of the audience, watching others run. By then you'd be glad that you have slowed down, or speed up accordingly to keep a pace with the one running by your side. And you would have turned the world and moved the heavens if only you knew how just to hear her laugh and see her face. For in the end of it all, it's not a race with the world. The race goes on with or with out you. It's not a race with the road. The road leads on forever, you just happen to walk on a part of it. In the end of it all, it is a race with yourself, a journey to give meaning to why you and everyone is just running, an attempt to make sense out of all this.
Humanity have a tendency to lose touch of what truly matters when they pursue what they think matters. But it's okay. For a perspective you have gained. And between the visions of better days and the reality of the race, you can see a balance. You know why your heart is beating, you understand how you feel and the drive to act has never pumped so much life into you.
For all you need to hear is a laughter, all you need to see is a smile on her face, to feel her touch, and the world is perfect. To know that she can slow down a bit while you catch your breath, where you're heading is now secondary. And when the things that matters matter no more, you know that this is the one thing that will persist. And so, you race, but an arrogant smile on your face tells the world that you will do anything necessary to keep what truly matters.
To be at her side.
But sometimes... Sometimes you meet someone running along your side. A smile, a whisper, a laugh. You can share the same vision of the sunset you're heading to, and your legs now seems light as a feather; the battery acid that was burning through your veins, the muscle ache and the fatigue bothers you no more. The things that worry you still worries you, but their weight on your chest and shoulders seems to have been halved, possibly even more. You feel like you can carry an extra weight of the world and still be perfectly fine. Her hair flutters in the wind, covering her eye in the most ridiculous way. She gives a funny look, possibly one of the most outrageous faces in the world, but it doesn't matter. You're the happiest guy in the world... So effortlessly...
You've been running for a while now. People you've seen walked by you, millions. People who've walked with you, thousands, and then some. And yet... none of them have come this close, have so easily lifted you up through vast distances. Just being there, the sensation of perfection. Where everything feels so right. A connection straight through you where no one has got to before. A skeptic, you were always one; but if ever the idea of the one was proved, you know where to look.
Right then and there, you take a better look around... The race is still a part of life, a necessity, a priority. You understand that, but at the same time, you can't help feeling that this is insignificant. There are always people faster than you, and there are always people slower than you. And your strength is limited. And you know that when your legs give in and your knees can carry you no more, you will retreat to the seat of the audience, watching others run. By then you'd be glad that you have slowed down, or speed up accordingly to keep a pace with the one running by your side. And you would have turned the world and moved the heavens if only you knew how just to hear her laugh and see her face. For in the end of it all, it's not a race with the world. The race goes on with or with out you. It's not a race with the road. The road leads on forever, you just happen to walk on a part of it. In the end of it all, it is a race with yourself, a journey to give meaning to why you and everyone is just running, an attempt to make sense out of all this.
Humanity have a tendency to lose touch of what truly matters when they pursue what they think matters. But it's okay. For a perspective you have gained. And between the visions of better days and the reality of the race, you can see a balance. You know why your heart is beating, you understand how you feel and the drive to act has never pumped so much life into you.
For all you need to hear is a laughter, all you need to see is a smile on her face, to feel her touch, and the world is perfect. To know that she can slow down a bit while you catch your breath, where you're heading is now secondary. And when the things that matters matter no more, you know that this is the one thing that will persist. And so, you race, but an arrogant smile on your face tells the world that you will do anything necessary to keep what truly matters.
To be at her side.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Constanticity of Home
I never went to war. Not yet anyway. I tried to, but they wouldn't let me. Not on a student Visa. And yet, right at the first read through of Krebs' conversation with his mom through Hemingway's writing, an instant connection just clicked.
I've never been to war. I don't know if I ever will. I was eager at first, really eager. That was almost four years ago. The enthusiasm died down quite a bit, but the thought always lingered at the back of my head.
I reread the short story as if it was my story. I held the book and chewed slowly at each word as if looking at a mirror trying to recognize my face because something that was or was not supposed to be there, now isn't or is anymore.
"Yes. Don't you love your mother, dear boy?"
"No,," Krebs said.
His mother looked at him across the table. Her eyes were shiny. She started crying.
"I don't love anybody," Krebs said.
A shockingly familiar scene, like the madness of deja vu with words.
Krebs isn't exactly a friendly name. "Krebs! Go grab a beer and come hang out with us!" - doesn't exactly have that buddy ring to it. Neither did mine. You'd think that a name that starts with 'L' would end up being nice and all. The kind of name that would roll off from your tongue so easily. So much for that. They had wealth, money and all the riches in the world when they named me. With a dash of luck. I held on to the miniscule luck part for most of my life. Trying, almost with a hint of desperation at times, to give people the impression that my name is more humane that what it literally is. Over time, I stopped doing that. Krebs don't care.
Krebs kissed her hair. She put her face up to him.
"I'm your mother," she said. "I held you next to my heart when you were a tiny baby."
Krebs felt sick and vaguely nauseated.
Funny. How mothers guilt us, or try to anyway, into loving her, because they're our mother. And the lies we tell to keep them satisfied.
My mother said similar things to me during that conversation. Very similar things. Perhaps she meant it sincerely, perhaps Krebs' mother mean it too, perhaps. Or maybe it's just that they held on to the image of their children, forever immortalized to be infantile, doomed from maturity. "You'll always be your mama's baby." At some point in their life, they stop seeing change I guess, or just stop accepting it.
But I've never been old. What do I know.
Culture and religion, from either side of from both, a celestial obligation, birthright and duty for children to love their parents, and vice versa. "Despite all the hurtful things you've said, I still love you. Because I'm your mother." said my mom during that night. Like it was a job with a full description, implied with all the reciprocation to be expected. And she did love me, still does, after everything. Somehow that drives me a bit mad inside. But this isn't even about that.
I've never been to war. I may never know what happened back their in the field with Krebs, but I know exactly what he's going through. Maybe we can all blame this on change, and it would be a safe bet; and I'm still going to. The case of me and Krebs, and the numerous students who went studying abroad, and all the war vets who've been away from their country too long, this is the case.
The country we returned to isn't the country that we left. We changed, it changed, and even if by extreme measure of massive improbability that neither did, time would be a guarantee for change. A simple equation with way too many variables, and that's not even the start of it. Friends are still there, but they're not the same people when you left. Your family is still there for you, but something is just not quite the same. Houses, city, the life, the beat, you can barely recognize it anymore. The definition of suddenly became very ironic if not extremely obscure by now.
I lied to everybody. Mostly to sustain an image, unchanging to hold on to relationships that are more frail than people give it credit for. I didn't want to lie to my mom. But she couldn't take it. She has never been able to take it. It made her cry almost every time. She's a strong woman. She didn't really need a husband or a provider. But she got married anyway. She loved my dad. Also it was tradition. She could've bear the world on her shoulders and be fine with it. Which she did. But time is catching up to her and you can see her weariness in the aching of her joints and the rings around her eyes and her meager appetite. And my telling truths is one of the very few things in life that brings out the weakness in her. I ended up lying anyway. Every time. There's always the guilt part. In sense, I'm a bit grateful for. It lets you know that you're still human. Sometimes I wish I wasn't though, but that's another story.
It's always been a race with change. And for a long while, I pride myself on being able to catch up. Adaptability. Fancy words from the Discovery Channel to define myself. But you're never as great as you think you are. I was just a kid. I probably still am now. I like to think I'm older. But the difference is like a blur. Sometimes you think it's change, but it's you, just seeing more of yourself. Living life and meeting people tend to reflect an image back in yourself. It's like piecing together a huge crumbled mirror to see yourself in it as time goes by. You reveal more of yourself in extreme situations, where pressure pushes against madness, chaos and time in a multi-way battle of who knows how many sides, with you in the middle. It gets tiring sometimes.
They want you to come back. Sooner or later. But it's not what you left behind. Leaving you wandering, searching for the pieces of a painting of life that was lost to you during your time away. It can never be the same again. And sometimes, it hurts just hanging around, looking, salvaging... But they never get it. In their eyes, you are immortalized.
Krebs and the soldiers were called "The Lost Generation." Stuck in a limbo of time and space where everything meets but the place they belong is gone. Home is gone. How conceited it is to claim that you know what they are going through. But the connection is so strong that I can even go out on both limbs to say that I do. "Lost" is a very strong state of being, despite the obscurity implied in the essence of the word itself. And I can trace back every single of my steps to Krebs with a very believable margin.
Although I've never been to war.
I've never been to war. I don't know if I ever will. I was eager at first, really eager. That was almost four years ago. The enthusiasm died down quite a bit, but the thought always lingered at the back of my head.
I reread the short story as if it was my story. I held the book and chewed slowly at each word as if looking at a mirror trying to recognize my face because something that was or was not supposed to be there, now isn't or is anymore.
"Yes. Don't you love your mother, dear boy?"
"No,," Krebs said.
His mother looked at him across the table. Her eyes were shiny. She started crying.
"I don't love anybody," Krebs said.
A shockingly familiar scene, like the madness of deja vu with words.
Krebs isn't exactly a friendly name. "Krebs! Go grab a beer and come hang out with us!" - doesn't exactly have that buddy ring to it. Neither did mine. You'd think that a name that starts with 'L' would end up being nice and all. The kind of name that would roll off from your tongue so easily. So much for that. They had wealth, money and all the riches in the world when they named me. With a dash of luck. I held on to the miniscule luck part for most of my life. Trying, almost with a hint of desperation at times, to give people the impression that my name is more humane that what it literally is. Over time, I stopped doing that. Krebs don't care.
Krebs kissed her hair. She put her face up to him.
"I'm your mother," she said. "I held you next to my heart when you were a tiny baby."
Krebs felt sick and vaguely nauseated.
Funny. How mothers guilt us, or try to anyway, into loving her, because they're our mother. And the lies we tell to keep them satisfied.
My mother said similar things to me during that conversation. Very similar things. Perhaps she meant it sincerely, perhaps Krebs' mother mean it too, perhaps. Or maybe it's just that they held on to the image of their children, forever immortalized to be infantile, doomed from maturity. "You'll always be your mama's baby." At some point in their life, they stop seeing change I guess, or just stop accepting it.
But I've never been old. What do I know.
Culture and religion, from either side of from both, a celestial obligation, birthright and duty for children to love their parents, and vice versa. "Despite all the hurtful things you've said, I still love you. Because I'm your mother." said my mom during that night. Like it was a job with a full description, implied with all the reciprocation to be expected. And she did love me, still does, after everything. Somehow that drives me a bit mad inside. But this isn't even about that.
I've never been to war. I may never know what happened back their in the field with Krebs, but I know exactly what he's going through. Maybe we can all blame this on change, and it would be a safe bet; and I'm still going to. The case of me and Krebs, and the numerous students who went studying abroad, and all the war vets who've been away from their country too long, this is the case.
The country we returned to isn't the country that we left. We changed, it changed, and even if by extreme measure of massive improbability that neither did, time would be a guarantee for change. A simple equation with way too many variables, and that's not even the start of it. Friends are still there, but they're not the same people when you left. Your family is still there for you, but something is just not quite the same. Houses, city, the life, the beat, you can barely recognize it anymore. The definition of suddenly became very ironic if not extremely obscure by now.
I lied to everybody. Mostly to sustain an image, unchanging to hold on to relationships that are more frail than people give it credit for. I didn't want to lie to my mom. But she couldn't take it. She has never been able to take it. It made her cry almost every time. She's a strong woman. She didn't really need a husband or a provider. But she got married anyway. She loved my dad. Also it was tradition. She could've bear the world on her shoulders and be fine with it. Which she did. But time is catching up to her and you can see her weariness in the aching of her joints and the rings around her eyes and her meager appetite. And my telling truths is one of the very few things in life that brings out the weakness in her. I ended up lying anyway. Every time. There's always the guilt part. In sense, I'm a bit grateful for. It lets you know that you're still human. Sometimes I wish I wasn't though, but that's another story.
It's always been a race with change. And for a long while, I pride myself on being able to catch up. Adaptability. Fancy words from the Discovery Channel to define myself. But you're never as great as you think you are. I was just a kid. I probably still am now. I like to think I'm older. But the difference is like a blur. Sometimes you think it's change, but it's you, just seeing more of yourself. Living life and meeting people tend to reflect an image back in yourself. It's like piecing together a huge crumbled mirror to see yourself in it as time goes by. You reveal more of yourself in extreme situations, where pressure pushes against madness, chaos and time in a multi-way battle of who knows how many sides, with you in the middle. It gets tiring sometimes.
They want you to come back. Sooner or later. But it's not what you left behind. Leaving you wandering, searching for the pieces of a painting of life that was lost to you during your time away. It can never be the same again. And sometimes, it hurts just hanging around, looking, salvaging... But they never get it. In their eyes, you are immortalized.
Krebs and the soldiers were called "The Lost Generation." Stuck in a limbo of time and space where everything meets but the place they belong is gone. Home is gone. How conceited it is to claim that you know what they are going through. But the connection is so strong that I can even go out on both limbs to say that I do. "Lost" is a very strong state of being, despite the obscurity implied in the essence of the word itself. And I can trace back every single of my steps to Krebs with a very believable margin.
Although I've never been to war.
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