Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Blink my Cursor, Blink.

My cursor blinks, looking right at me with anticipation, like a child filled with curiosity as eager and impatient.  What will you write next? A poem, a thought? How far will you take me? A paragraph, a page? It, however, manages to wait, loyal for as long as forever. It stands there at the end of every letter I type, pleading for me to type more, to push it farther along the line, like a slave high on abuse. It marks the beginning of every story untold, and marks the sour end to them too. It's a tongue, liberating speech and thought. It's a heart, beating efficiently. It's a lover, coming back after every departure. It's a guide, cutting a road through blankness. It's a voyager, leaving a trail behind. It's a leader, right at the frontier, ready to push the army of words behind it an extra mile for the win. 

I cannot but respond to it's blinking, looking at me with puppy eyes. I cannot but feel a necessity to compose for it's loyalty. I cannot but respect its bravery and applaud its ways, and so I type. Allowing it to take me to where I never would have been able to go alone, to a new line, one after another. It's my number one fan, my shelter, my challenger, my salvation, and my muse. We share the obligation to tell, like a bed, common grounds, that I can simply no longer ignore nor turn my back to. A couple, we build a home, weave a plot, and create a world of our own. The relationship between us refuses borders, boulders, restraints, and infidelity. Therefore, I must be true, and what it asks of me must ensue.

Blink my cursor, blink, and let us sail away across a new sea full of adventure. Blink away, blink, and unravel a new world, a new truth before our eyes. Blink today, blink, and affirm a present full of promise. Blink again, blink, and push all efforts that seem to be tiring. Blink my cursor, blink, and let there be writing, let there be history, and literature, and life.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

The Night

  Sleep had eloped with all of my dreams, and I have become a dreamless insomniac. Often I'd find myself alone with the night. We'd remain quiet for hours. At times, I get bold enough to confront it in silence, while at others, I'm way too discouraged, and I hide amidst piles of work in more silence. It's beautiful, my relationship with the night, and it's simple, unlike everything else going on in my life. 

  With tunes of a beautiful cello and piano to my ears, I close my eyes in the arms of the night, and we dance. It takes me away, hiding me far from the chaos of the morning bustle, from my fears, and my responsibilities. I love it, and how it grants me much attention. There's only me amidst the night, only I am wrapped tightly in its black cloak, only I am held so closely with tender love and affection like no other, yet again in overwhelming silence.

  I paint all sorts of colors and hope into a future that remains unknown yet seems exhausting, as my eyes remain closed. The night watches as I do so with a peaceful grin, nodding at how young I can be. Then, I'd let out sighs of relief and gratitude knowing with certainty that the night listens with patience to all of my unspoken misery. To me, it's just magical having the night all for myself stealthily like a mistress. There's just a tasty spice to it, something beyond my capability to understand, something my feelings though constantly demand, a silently perfect lover.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Panic Attacks

I thought that I was never going to stand tall again. I thought that I was forever broken, nothing more than damaged goods, lying around still and lifeless amongst the rest of the pieces of shattered glass scattered about in this deserted warehouse we call life. Every time I used to hold her hands and ask her wondering if things will ever get back to how they were, I'd doubt her when she'd look at me, smile beautifully, and tell me with all the confidence in the world that it'll pass the way everything else we have been through had passed. I love her so much, I'd then think to myself and smile back silently, holding in my pain, fear, and doubt away from what her eyes could see, protecting her from feeling helpless and in chains.

I was sweating, lightheaded, and breathing with difficulty. I was terrified. Death felt close, hovering around, leaving me to my torture while watching in exhilaration before deciding to take my soul. The sound of my heart was loud enough to ring in my ears almost rendering me deaf to anything else, and the pounding was powerful enough to feel like my heart was trying to tear away from all of what holds it down in place and dissect its way out of my chest fleeing for its life. It was agony in one of its purest forms. Overall I wanted to run, far away from where I stood. I would if I could, but I couldn't, so I stay put. I stood there, a statue, with an escalating war inside. Destruction brought all of Rome down to ashes inside of me yet I stood there, a statue. I held my ground.

The suffering went on for a month and a half. There were times in between when I wanted to succumb to medications and bid my will to be enslaved by a pill. Ridiculous you think? Salvation I thought. I am non-other than a bag of flesh and bones, incapable of being divine, though capable of believing in THE divine and in a better tomorrow, so I clenched on to my faith one day at a time. I knew deep down that God had something in store for me, something beyond what my dreams could see, and sure did he. He raised me up to be a bark by surrounding my green weakness with adversity. He allowed life to batter me to bits with an iron fist, but fixed my bones with screws and plates of strength and perseverance. He let me drown in a sea of fears, but taught me how to swim to shore. I am who I am today, standing tall, and a living proof for you to see that what does't kill you makes you stronger.