Catch my drift if you can.
If you can keep up, anyways.
The moment I start to cease
The day. The night. My cruise.
It floats.
Drift away from my grip.
Catch my thoughts if you can.
My very dispersed bits.
The distorted truths
I craft in my head.
Keep up if you can.
Because I can’t.
Catch me while I’m falling.
Keep me up when I’m drifting.
Wake me while I’m hazing,
For my thoughts are dispersed.
And my days are not seized.
Barely hanging on to the whims of the world,
The rushes of the crowd,
I twist my way forward.
Propel ahead to the front.
Meanwhile,
The whelms of my chaos,
The rues of my abyss
Poises my lungs.
Thomps my heart to the beats.
And wind the webs in my head.
Suffocation.
The stifle.
The whimsy of my scream
Turns into a whisper of realm.
I halt.
I breathe in.
Yet I keep going.
I breathe in.
Then, I run.
Yet, I never breathe out.
I hold on to it.
Everything I devour.
Adding to the suffocation.
Building up the complexion,
I keep roaring inside.
Screaming from the far side.
To never let it out.
Not to shout it out loud.
While I rave and rant,
I hold the thought.
But sometimes,
On the rare days,
I BREATHE.
I breathe like no other day.
I let it all go in a puff of air.
And I fold my serene
Into the creases of my brain!
It started as a holiday. Nay, it started as a rainy day. The weather has been acting up, these last few weeks. And the day was not an exception. Yet, it was a holiday for it was time for the long-awaited friendship to be once again reignited. The thing about reunions, though, is that one cannot expect or predict how they would be.
In rushed pacing, while trying to forget the missing pieces during the last few months, she (Ti) arrived at the venue. She is not nervous, per se. It is just the exhilaration of reconnecting the dots. And the guilt for being late. All was forgotten as soon as they met. And the day has officially begun.
At lunch, the reminiscence of the past began. Some memories have been forgotten now. Some are still funnier than ever. And most are truly valuable for whomever they both have become today. Lo, the friend, asked, “do you think love is painful?”. “Why should you ask?”, she replied. “I cannot say. If love is truly painful, one must avoid it for all its causes. If it cannot be helped and if one is doomed to have fallen in love, then, the true sign is if s/he feels pain. And that’s…that’s just not right.”
“I think love is painful, yes. But I don’t think pain is the litmus paper to decide whether one is in love or not. Most certainly, many have written and sung about it as if it’s a rare occurrence of happiness. Deep ecstasy. A full brightness at once. A fair share might have connoted that love is, in fact, pain. But pain is usually the aftermath. Not the basic form of it. Anyway, why are you fretting about it? Are you in love? Or are you in pain?” Her eyes were full of smiles ready to burst into laughter.
Lo rolled her eyes and went on. “I think I am just in pain. Or maybe I am in love, but I am not feeling this overwhelming happiness you preach about. All I know is …all I think I know is, I am choosing not to feel this pain wherever it is being shot from. I live in selective denial. I deliberately choose to ignore the painstaking parts of my life to find a serene.” The conversation couldn’t be helped to go on further. But both went on to think about it in silence.
Since Lo was enthused to visit the city further, the tour around the town started. The unending chatters and the cool, cloudy weather were powerful enough to make them forget the crowd. While cruising the main roads, they found a little cozy coffee shop. Lo was undecided whether she wants her caffeine shot or not. In the meantime, Ti was enjoying her coffee.
Lo, again, asked. Or wondered out loud. “I think I am all over the place.” She sighed.
“What do you mean?” Ti looked at her briefly and went on sipping her coffee.
“I mean…look at me, I am more than halfway to finishing school. But I am not even sure whether I will work with it. I am finding, yet, other interests of my own. But how can I be sure whether these newly found interests would remain or not? If you were to look inside my head, you would see how my thoughts are haphazardly placed. Half the time, I don’t even know what I am thinking. I want to be composed. I wish I could see myself sorted. Oh, I need a drink.” She finally decided.
“You know what they say.” Ti went on smiling a little. “As you get older, nothing seems to differ. Except the days are longer. Yet, your age flies faster.”
“But I want it to differ!”Lo cut her off. “What is the point of getting older, then?”
“I don’t know. If it makes you feel any better, I, too, am all over the place. I choose to believe most are. There is a console in thinking some other people are going through the same thing you are experiencing. Collectiveness is not a mere coincidence. It is, rather, a true source of comfort in times like this.”
“But I wish to know. I would like to know at least one thing about myself for sure. How can I not know anything?” Lo whined loudly.
“You do know. You are just too scared to start afresh. Change is the one thing we never get used to. And it shows.” Ti is no longer laughing. The rain is starting to tickle again. Nevertheless, both seem not to care.
“True. I never do well through change. Nor during transitions. It always takes me a while to settle. And now, I just…ahhh…all I need is navigation through my head. Maybe that could help.”
Both are quiet, now. But this is not an awkward silence. It was just a momentary lapse into a world of their own.
In front of the city, then, they sat. The streetlights made the night, beautiful. The city looks quite different. The bright light from the big screen fades on and off by the minute. After taking too many candid pictures, they finally set on to listening to music. The cold breath of the night, the quiet melody of the music, and the comfort of having someone nearby made a truly grand combination.
“Oh, I love this day!” Ti slightly whispered. “I wish we could live at this moment forever. Or perhaps we can freeze this moment longer.” She almost whined for this was beyond anyone’s power. “One can only wish for the things he cannot have.” She resolved.
The spontaneity. The unplanned compliance of the moments made an almost perfect day. Why almost, you ask? Because there might always be a better one!
I remember the first day I ran on a treadmill. It was a Tuesday afternoon in the gym. I signed up the day before to be more active or something like that. And of course, after a little warm-up, the trainer led me to the treadmill. What can I say?! It was a thrilling experience. The lane beneath my feet kept sliding so fast I barely could breathe or keep up with it. Yet, I didn’t fall. I stumbled a little and I kept going at it. And I sometimes wonder if life is just a non-ending treadmill.
Life has been an adventurous game for me. Not in the way some people say it. I didn’t live vicariously through outdoor experiences like that of skydiving or paragliding. None of the sorts where I would have a surge of adrenaline. But in a way, I had to adjust and readjust too many times. Yes, I feel out of place or trapped in a glass box where I can see unto my life but never experience it. But in the gliding reality of my life, I keep wondering if the world would ever be enough for the slow runners on the giant treadmill.
So, I wonder;
Is the world truly accommodating for the slow runners? For pessimists? The non-believers? The passives? The readers? The academicians? The non-influencers? The invisible ones? The list is unending.
Do not misconstrue these ideas. I am not all of those things, of course. I just keep wondering if the world is truly a home for the thinkers who sit over an idea for a decade or more. The academicians who romanticize theoretical flares even when they don’t provide a comprehensive answer. Is the world accommodating for those who are more intrigued by books rather than 30-second videos? What are the fates of the non-believers? Those who do not get moved by the idea that tomorrow is better? In a way, everybody knows tomorrow is a little bit worse than today. But is the world really accommodating to those who reflect this out loud? Or am I just blinded by the apocalypse fetish Freud mentioned? Is it wrong to be a pessimist? Or is it one of those things where the majority wins?
I do not suppose no one has full answers to any of the questions. Neither am I trying to answer them all. One thing remains unanswered though. The unquenched thirst for authenticity! Value on and in itself! Beyond the unending treadmill, isn’t there something worth better? That can be valued as best? Can you find your true self in a rushed and paced set of worlds? Or in a serene and quieter setting? In a world where value is not valued anymore, where does value lie? Where do I find it? Everywhere or nowhere?
It’s life after all, they say.
It happens in black and white, they claim.
But also, they refrain.
For some, it happens in colours.
For others, life fades within the shades.
However,
If life were to reflect
The turmoil and infarcts,
If it was to pertain the illness,
To caricature the abyss,
Then, life must be
A li’l bit of black and white.
If life is all about the goods and the bads,
The wrongs and the rights,
Happening between the oscillations,
On the scale of the extremes,
Then, life is indeed
A li’l bit of black and white.
If life is in the beyond,
Beyond the colour bound,
Neither in the reflection,
Nor in the absorption,
Life, then, must be a cohesion
Of colours and shades.
After all, it’s life.
Isn’t it?
It’s never bound.
Yet, it hounds.
One of my recent cinematic indulgences was a movie called Tár. The movie concentrated on Lydia Tár, a renowned musician who happened to be an unpleasant person, yet highly talented and gifted in classical music. Throughout the movie, one can assess if it is possible to see the woman for her immaculate skills rather than her shrews and uncanny behaviours. I would not go on further to discuss the movie in further detail, for this is not a review nor a critique of the movie. But I would insist on discussing if one can love the art apart from the artist [the creator].
The relationship between art and the artist is an undefined territory. For many artists out there, their art has an intense entanglement within their being. If many artists were asked to define what their art upholds to them, without a doubt, they remain speechless. Because, well, their art is a mere part of themselves taking a form of a certain reality. Tangible and authentic. For some, if not most, art is a way of articulation of their pain. Or intense ecstasies such as love or the infinitude of one’s happiness. Either way, it is this undeniable connection that makes the question remain in shades.
Does the art fully reside in the artist, though? Yes, undoubtedly, it can become the centre of every act of the artist. But are we meant to find the shreds of his soul or his entire being poured out?
If we were to find the entire being of the artist in the pieces he writes/paints/records, it would make it more than difficult to see them as two distinct entities. That would mean we can fully understand and explore the being of the artist via his art. It would simply mean the art is the artist. And the artist is the art. But I have to admit that it is a bit far-fetched for we humans are much more complicated to be found piled on a piece. Wouldn’t that be something if it was possible, though?
As this gnawing thought spread in my head, I asked my poet friend if he could separate the art from the artist. “I wish to believe that I can distinctly see these two”, he answered. “But”, he went on, “I have seen myself being biased after getting to know the artist. And in many instances, I would prefer if I did not know much about them. It helps me to enjoy the work genuinely.”
As I mentioned, I believe this is an undefined territory. Yet, despite who or what kind of person the artist is, there are undeniable masterpieces I can not seem to hate. After all, aren’t we humans? Imperfect and full of blemishes? Just because we can produce something authentic, it doesn’t necessarily make us transcendental beings. Our art, the piece of our soul, can become transcendental, but not us. I think that is why we always admire art, no matter who we are. For something precious is born from those who are imperfect to live life as supposed.
That is the very reason why it is easy to appreciate art for what it is. This is why a true artist never cares for accolades and recognition. The actual embodiment of the work is rewarding enough. It is true that art fully resides in the artist. But the artist exists in parts to leave his heartbeat elsewhere.
Originally published on February 28/2023
It is not a façade.
Nor is it a deceit.
I am what I am.
And what I will become.
What I already have become.
The things I love,
The psyche I bear,
Is not thoroughly figured out.
Thoroughly refined.
It is a work in progress.
Unfinished derails of thoughts and memories.
So whatever I say,
The love or hate I utter,
Is the perception of my (current) opinion,
The fragment of my understanding,
Of my own becoming and growing,
(Hopefully, maturing).
In the process of growing,
For the sake of progressing,
Behind the shade of the unveiling,
It is not a façade.
No, it is not a lie.
It is an ode for becoming!
“Hello. My name is Mrs. Krementz, and I am your obituarist,” said an old sinister lady as she walked to my home. I have been on my bed the entire morning waiting to see what kind of person would come and knock at my door. As it turns out, they sent someone who is as old as me except for her attire, her precision of words, and her sharp, confident look.
‘Good God, why am I impressed with my obituarist?!’ I thought. But I kept walking my guest to my living room. She is awfully quiet. And her face couldn’t say anything I might configure.
“You must…”I cleared my throat halfway. I haven’t said a word since this morning and my throat was half closed. She only glanced at me and she opened her bag. I cleared my throat again and asked if she was thirsty.
“Water is fine,” she said.
“So, you are an obituarist. How does it really work? You know…do you find your job a little sad?” I do not know what I am talking about. I am just trying to make a conversation because I am terrified of the questions she might be asking me next. I don’t know why I am terrified though.
“It is okay. I don’t find it sad. I just write it.” Mrs. Krementz replied.
I find myself rolling my eyes in front of my water container. Then I get back to the room with a handful of glasses and snacks.
“I have to know your full name for the form. What is your last name, Ms. Jane?”
“Oh, don’t have one. I only use my first name. Just Jane. Not a miss, too.”
I thought she gave me an odd gaze for a minute. Perhaps, I am imagining it. She is filling out her forms. I can see her excellent penmanship from my chair. To keep myself from odd imaginations and a weird urge to ask about her life I kept cracking my snacks. She seems unbothered.
She kept filling out the forms while asking about my major identifiers as a person who occupies a space on this planet. I could hear myself sigh, but I answered her questions accordingly.
“So, Ms….ehmm…Jane. What sort of tales would you like us to tell when the inevitable finally happens?”, asked she. Her eyes are devoid of emotion or any information I can speculate from.
“Do you think death is the uncanny fate to human beings?”, I asked.
“No, I think death is a gift to the human population. I think it is a gift to life. Imagine if we were going to live infinitely?!” She said it at once. For a moment, I felt like she did not intend to say anything. But I love this game. I wanted to push her to the edge to tell me how her life is. I wanted to hear what people say to their obituarists.
“So, Jane…”.
“Yes.”
“I would rather not repeat myself. Tell me what you want people to read about after you die.” She sounded frustrated.
“I don’t know. I was wondering if you could tell me what other people usually say.” I said bleakly.
“They usually confess to me. Even though I don’t ask them anything. They prattle about what they regret in life. Or the places they haven’t visited. They usually talk about their hopes and dreams in life, you know.” She drifted off into her memory.
“Have you ever wondered what you would say if somebody were holding a gun to your head?” I asked.
“I suppose not.” She answered calmly. “I think about death a lot more awful than I would like to admit. It is my job after all. But I never thought I would die suddenly with a bullet. I guess the immediacy and the nearness of death might illicit a natural panic reaction for a second. Just for a minute. Not a while longer than that.”
The room went quiet after that. She kept poking her notebook. I kept rocking on my chair wondering what she was thinking.
“I remember this guy,” she went on. “He called me to his house just like you did. And he started narrating his hopes and dreams, his biggest mistakes in life, all the chances he did not take in his life…and so on. He was truly miserable. And he went on and said the saddest part of it is I am not resolved yet. I still think I could make sense out of it, he said. For a moment, I pitied him. For another moment, I envied him. And then I asked him where he sought out his hopes from. He stared into my eyes and said hope is the only thing I got. Then, I told him that was what brought him down in the first place. I can hear his confusion growing strong. You have set your standards so high, even death or the terror of death cannot bring you down to the face of reality, I said to him.”
All of a sudden, she stopped talking. She sat up straight and asked, “So Jane, what would you say to the person who is holding a gun to your head?”
“I …I…” She gave me a ‘spit it out already’ look. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to confide in her. For a moment, I felt like she was my oldest friend. I suddenly got up from my chair and asked if she wanted more tea, or a wine perhaps. She nodded yes for the wine and I bought myself a few more seconds to answer my own questions.
When I got back to the room, I saw her waiting for my reply. And I wondered if she were a little bit agitated to hear what I would say. I smirked at myself for thinking I could impress this lady and went on pouring the wine.
“If a gun was pointed at my head,” I went on, “I want to be afraid and maybe beg a little. But I don’t suppose I would do that. I wouldn’t mind dying a year from now or today. You know…” I am looking at her while I am taking a sip. She does not seem impressed or bored. She was just unbothered.
“Do you mind listening to music?” I inquired to break the silence. She nodded yes. But she cleared her throat louder this time and said “Look Ms. Jane…can you just tell me what you want to say in your obituary?” She looked half-irritated, half-relieved.
“Yeah. I am sorry I just don’t know where to start or what to say. Do you have your own notes ready for your obituary? Or your epitaph?”
She, then, got up and started walking directly to the music collection. ‘Hmm..she is not irritated,’ I wondered. She seemed relaxed and at ease.
“I had so many things in mind. I wanted to sound ordinary at times. I wanted to sound exceptional as well. I wanted to absolve the poetic justice of life and death in myself. I even wondered if love could be the biggest force. And then I realized there is a middle ground for everything. I felt ashamed for the times I was foolish and stupid. I felt a little bit boastful for being smart. But it keeps…” she sighed deeply and went on “circling back into something I cannot sum up. It’s not just one thing. It is a little bit of everything and a whole lot of nothing. And it keeps folding me into parts and pieces,” she suddenly stopped talking. Yet, I felt all the words she uttered to my core.
“So,” she sat back on the couch “Jane, tell me.”
“I am not sure what I want to tell you, to be honest. Life keeps happening to me.” I said it more intensely than I would like. “I am not actively alive, you know… Life is passing me by while I am just there looking at it. I, sometimes, feel existential wonder. And the meaninglessness. And again the opportunities and the pragmatic parcel of it. It is sort of a kaleidoscope of all the things that do not fit together. Nor blend. So, I don’t suppose I have one thing or another thing. I just…”.
I abruptly stopped talking. She looked at me. I stared back at her. And we both knew I was not going to say anything further.
After a few months, a local magazine read an obituary entitled “The Paradox” written by Mrs. Krementz.
I keep falling apart.
Year after year –
Time after time –
I keep breaking apart
Into pieces and piles.
And I wonder,
Have I not been falling,
Would I be in one piece?
If I were not descending,
Would I have thrived?
Or could I have survived the cracks,
If not for the fall?
And all I do is stare,
Stare into the abyss of the fall,
Time after time.
Year after year
Doing it all over
With a fresh start over.
Perhaps falling apart is the art,
And I am an artist.
In a sheer search of being understood,
Utter despair of being heard,
Or seen – not presumed,
I found myself in a void.
The valley of understanding-
Is far-fetched and beyond.
Doubt and fear brood,
Over the alley of fraud.
In the land of the imposters.
Is Percption;
Recognition;
Validation;
The reality of existence?
If it’s not perceived,
Does it not exist?
If it’s not recognized,
Is it fraud?
If it’s not validated,
Is it horrendous?
In the alley of doubt,
Existence is fought.
Reality is denied.
In mere quest of understanding,
I rave on life.
I rage war on myself.
I fry truth.
I worship doubt.
I rever death.
If it wasn’t for the land of doubt,
Or the walls of misconception,
What would the world be?
A raid or a bliss?
If understanding reigns,
Wouldn’t that make the world
A real work of art?!
What are you afraid of, they say.
They ask. They wonder. They speculate.
I pose. I think. I ruminate.
Most are afraid of death.
The thought of losing a breath.
Almost all are scared of loss.
Losing themselves.
Feigning personalities.
And frying of their ideal selves.
Am I not scared of loss?
Am I bold and fearless?
Have I not wandered to find the pieces of myself,
I would argue otherwise.
But death can’t scare me away.
In the sea of the abyss, I live in.
In the warmth of the loss city I have conquered,
I thrive and prowess in the valley of despair.
I can’t be afraid of the splashes
Nor the flashes of death and loss.
Yet, I’m scared of life.
Life in and of itself.
It is life I can not bear.
It is life I can not face (even when I’m facing it)
It’s life and the quirks
I can not condone
Nor I can frown upon.
For I it goes on and on.
Life scares me to death.
Death brazen me to life.
And fear unfolds the dark & the bright.
Quiet mornings,
Silent evenings,
Chaotic days,
And forever long winters.
Have I ever changed like seasons,
I would’ve become a better person,(Maybe).
After all, change is the only prison
Or the only constant
In this world of ours.
I feel nothing, yet everything.
From the slightest smirk of a stranger,
To the ache inducing speeches of my mother.
From tiniest scratches,
To my unhealed wounds and scars.
If I am numb to everything,
How can I feel anything?
If my heart is hollow, as they say,
Why can’t I stop feeling everything?
Would you feel like you have nothing,
If you had everything?
Or the vice versa?
What beholds the power?
The nothing in everything?
Or the everything in nothing?
If all be crushed under everything
Or nothing,
If there is no in between,
To act like an iceland or a haven,
I, then, yearn for nothing.
But needs everything.
Did the world happen to me?
Or have I happened to it?
Am I the centre of the world
Or is the world the centre of me?
If I create my world within the world,
Am I considered sane or absurd?
If I was not of this world,
Would I have become good?
Or worse?
Where do you locate the foci
Of existence?
In this world or your own self?
Or your own universe?
Would the world get better
If I wasn’t in it?
Am I the mistake that happened
To the world itself?
Or was the cosmos
The giant blunder I stumbled upon?
If the world wasn’t made of
A great if,
What would have become of me?
I don’t contemplate or fret,
Nor do I complain or frustrate.
Nor do I write or speak of it.
I just sigh and get on with it.
For my life has become
Unending loop of whelms,
I endure it like a robot.
Floating in the sea of denial,
Thriving in the land of irritation,
I rather not think
Or ponder.
For today is not any better,
Or tomorrow shan’t differ.
It’s a mundane cycle.
Unkind and brutal.
It’s a busy life.
A programmed strife.
So I sigh. I exhale. And I live,
My robotic life!
Unabridged Manuscripts 