Sometimes, I want to cry with the sheer beauty of it all. The beauty that lies in destruction and creation. The beauty of bloody revolutions and dangerous idealisms. If my tears ducts weren’t incapacitated, because for some reason they are, I would have cried. My heart would have stopped beating a long time ago- drained by simply beating too much. It would’ve exploded- because beauty is just as dangerous as dynamite. Because idealisms explode and consume and affect much more than hydrogen bombs. Because it is so deterministically human to believe in things- sometimes naively, sometimes dangerously, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes painfully. And I’ve longed to regain the characteristically human elements of my being. I’ve longed to feel again, to believe again, to love and hurt and hope again. The things I’ve lost to my darkness. The thing’s I’ve lost in my cold, defensive reason. The things I’ve lost to my fear and my indolence. It is tiring after all to hope and believe. It is consuming. And it takes all of me. It burns all of me. But I’ve always arrogantly fancied myself as a phoenix, a masochistic phoenix who wouldn’t mind the burn simply because it’s a lovely burning. Kalopsia they claim is the state wherein one believes things are even more beautiful than they are. Perhaps, this word explains the dangers of my love for ideologies, the reasons for my belief in idealisms that make people perceive me as a flickering naiveté. This very delusion that drives me, will probably result in my slow withering away. Much like smoke. Much like cigarettes. Maybe in this way, with my destructive, slow consuming beliefs… I could finally make dying beautiful. Like the phoenix that I arrogantly claim myself to be, like the cigarette I know I am… let me just burn, baby. Let me burn. I need a little char in my bone.
It’s about time we got high on a feeling. I’m in the mood for a little bit of peace. Let’s be this sober, sublime silence in the middle of the music.
But the thing is, everything stops when I write. I forget to eat, to sleep. I get so consumed by it, you’d say i was in love- in love with the very craft, sustained by the very act. It is all of me. And that can get very frightening. To be so devoured by something that you lose yourself and you find yourself, paradoxically in the losing. It feels right. It feels good but a rightness and a goodness that comes with a slow withering away- much like smoking, much like vices- a right and good slow decay you willingly put on yourself. You travel into your depths, you slowly carve away your insides, you slowly destroy yourself. And you smirk devilishly at the thought that this is the most sublime feeling in the world. And then a melancholic realization comes over you- the tragedy of your dream, of your embarrassing fling with the pen : how you must postpone life, deny everything else- in order to truly live. I’ve buried the pen too many times and yet here it is again staring me in the face. God, how I hate it. And yet it is the only thing I can adamantly love.
I’ve had some time to thing recently… to retreat into myself and think… this is all i could take back with me.2
I’ve been staying in my Van Gogh crevice for sometime. Lounging in a sober darkness. Comforted by it. And here, in my playhouse, where my inner child slumbers peacefully, where I can let lose the underworld within me, where I can play with my demons and converse with my angels… I suddenly realized… there is no escaping the oblivion inside me. There is and will always and forever be a spec inside my soul- the void beyond madness and dream, desire and despair and joy. Beyond all things determinately human- the emptiness. Placid. Sweetly placid emptiness. Here, the part of me that clings to a personhood shatters. It is beyond my madness space, my Van Gogh crevice, the liminal spaces between Johari’s windows. There, it is deeper, colder, darker. There, there is no pang, no gnawing sensitivity that validates a beating penchant, no indescribable feeling of the heart that likens itself to a toothache- a cavity being drilled empty in order to be filled- there’s none of that. Only a be stilling lack of sensation. A suspended nothingness. A destructive lightness. There is no me. No soul. Only a hollow- beckoning. Beyond madness, beyond destruction, before death- there is this space. Where nothing of yourself is yours simply because nothing of yourself is left. I’ve yet to got here. But I’m aware of the place simply because I’ve seen the creaking door that smiles crookedly when you glance secretly at it. The door to your nothing. Waiting, hailing. Lying like a deep well in the farthest crevice of your madness metropolis. That sewer vent. That silent, wet rock. Creaking. Locked. It is not death that takes you there, but a losing… a losing of yourself, a losing of your heart brought upon by your own deep rest, your own self retreat. The Dorian conundrum. The narcissus dilemma: losing yourself in your holy unstoppable attempt to find yourself- your soul scent, your being sense and understanding that it is simply a multiplied nothingness- The secret of all things infinite, you see, is that it rests in a sacred nothing. That is the god-truth, the universal secret. The selfhood. The inevitable oblivion in us all: we lie in a stable nothing.
I know there is a poem that you have written with your sorrows.
With a soft ink,
A welcoming darkness.
A feather with a blunt tip that dares to rip like a sword with black blood on parchment
A willing soul.
I know there is a truth that you conceal.
The lingering grip of an irresolvable melancholy.
It stays like cigarette smoke scents on your hair.
Like nicotine patches on your yellowed fingers.
The whiskey breath eternal.
The kiss of vice tracing your neck.
The vampire hickey of flesh hunger.
These things have marked you- daughter of the underworld. Creature of the night. Sister shadow of Hades. Lost soul. The Persephone playmate of one who had died too soon.
These things have marked you- envious being. Audacious dreamer. Creepers that hope to touch the light, to be consumed by it. To fade in sun ethereal.
I know of the hollow whisper that you blow into the blankets of strangers. The ancient dream of honest love.
Into the tight fleece of a one night stand
Into the tight cling of tangled sheets
And nails embedded passionately on skin
Carving the echo of a lust bind- empty promise.
[Tonight you are mine. Tonight you are mine. Tonight we are lovers that met for the first time]
[Tomorrow we are but a hangover.]
[Tomorrow we’ll mean no. body.]
Abandoned into alcohol intimacy
Into unknown advances from blurry fingers and etched out lips.
From a misleading trailing of body heat.
From glittering false warmth.
The end as a silent creeping, a loud clicking of a door closing.
The embrace of a nameless man with a faceless appendage. Dissipating into cold.
Dissipating into cold.
The other half dissolved.
I know there is a secret in your hallow.
The ticking of an empty womb.
The denied lipstick stain on a memory’s collar.
The scraping of youth’s perpetual regret
By growing up too haphazardly.
I know the secret in your closet of a carved out chest
And a bag of tricks.
The story behind the painted lie.
The gracious denial of a pained smile.
You’re not as clever as you think.
I see your melancholy.
I see (y)our melancholy.
You cannot hide yourself from yourself.
"I’ve yet to peer into the darkness of my soul. My misery I had faced and known. My misery I have grown to love. But my darkness? I do not know my darkness. Not yet."
A quote from Catharsis. A confession or rather a prayer that had gotten too carried away with itself.
Catharsis. An excerpt from a confession or rather a prayer- one that had gotten too carried away with itself.2
In the garden, when you bargained with your father, what did you ask him? Did you ask him to spare you? Did you want to call it off? Did you fear the pain? How could your heart not break during the trials of your crucifixion? How could you have done the things you have done without anything in return? How could you have loved with so much grace and died with so much love? How could you not have hated the strangers that so quickly disowned you? How could you in fact, sweetly embrace them, instantaneously forgive them? Us? Me? It’s so beautiful- your martyrdom and that I suppose is what makes you God. And also, what makes me human or worse devilish.
I understand, you see, how you would willingly die for that which you love, even though that which you love had willingly and gratefully chosen your death. Even though you love strangers that condemn you. It is with a burning passion for my country that makes me understand your love for humanity, for the world. How vainglorious it must make me seem to consider myself a martyr even though I have done nothing that merits me this title, a martyr simply because I consider, in fact, I wish that my death be for the sake of my country. It is the most beautiful death I could think of, the only death I would willingly live out- to die for the strangers whom I so passionately love, for the enemies I so sincerely wish to embrace. That is the only death for me. And I find myself arrogant enough to believe that I deserve such a privileged death. My country deserves better and yet all that I am is all that I can give.
A reaction to my Samsung earphones- I’d probably come up with a better articulation for a title but for now, that’s all I’ve got.1
It’s a different sense, when we veil our ears with silence and yet we hear all too much. The noise of the outside world with its pervasive, dangling, anticipating truths hushed but then the noise of my body, and the noise of its truths tick loudly like a time bomb, they hum like a semi-conscious recollection. This is how I sound like, in my silence- this is how I sound.
I can hear my pulse, the toils of a beating penchant perseveringly trying to validate its existence by abiding to some mechanical, natural law, to some biological doctrine. I beat therefore I exist.
I exist. Therefore.
The trailing (off) of a forgotten organ.
I can hear me breathing. Deep and sober breaths. The sweetness of a subdued pacific. The hallow echo of an empty shell, the ocean ringing in the distance. The fluid sigh of a reckless existence. The inhale, exhale of a numbness.
I can hear my swallow.
The swallowing of heavy gulps that deny my nerve-wrecked dream the light of day, the Icarus being, the sun embrace. The nervous gulps of a heavy mind with shaky knees and sweaty palms. Hiding behind a comfortable shadow, an easy darkness.
I can hear my teeth, reluctantly clanking like a groaning wench. They bump against hard shells of a sensitive sweet nerve. They reecho the beats of an unnamed vain pulsating in the side of my collar with a renounced lipstick stain. A trudging in a stretched out neck. A clicking anxiety. A chewing grace.
I can hear the nature in me whispering its ascendency over my determined self.
The silent longing of a dreaming thing. The dying hope of a foolish wish.
This child wanting.
This child clawing its way out of a damp, cold well- the limbo landmark of a teasing fate. With nail scratches of an irrefutable will. Hanging on by a fine, trembling thread.
This is what I sound like. In my silence. This is how I sound.
The call of desperation wishing to be something else. The soul escaping. The awkward shifting of a sheepish stare. The head bowing. The slow grip echo of a cigarette flying kiss, of halo smoke rings dissipating.
This is what I sound like. In my silence, this is how I sound.
And’s all too much for me to hear.
- A: If you could describe yourself with one word, what would that one word be?
- O: Am.
- A: What?
- O: I am.
- A: ---
- O: Wouldn't that suffice? (A bashful, playful smile apologizes for the disinterested attempt)
- A: --- (Only a silence that asks for more)
- O: Guess not.
- A: C'mon. Indulge me... One word...What would you be?
- O: Uhm...I don't know... I guess... I'd be... unedited? And all that that implies? I don't... I don't know...
- A: What does that imply, then?
- O: That I'm unpolished? Rough on the edges? Transparently raw and unrefined...Brutally, imperfectly maybe even melancholically honest, possibly unfinished... simply written. (A sigh) That's about it. I am a resigning shrug. I told you... I don't know. I just am. (The expression of a saddening realization that you don't really know who or what you are.)
- A: Sometimes that's the best thing to be. (There's a condoning, consolatory smirk at the end of the statement)
- O: What about you? (A smile resurfaces)
- A: I... hm... I guess... I'd be hypothetical?
- O: What do you mean by it?
- A: That I'm a possibility: figurative, speculative, without closure... and when I'm the best of myself... infinite.
- A: I like that. That's a very nice thing to be.