Alone

It's just one of those days when you feel utterly useless, where somehow everything you do just seems wrong, and yer probably one of the only people in the world experiencing a day of utter failure, and yer willing toa ctually meet one of those people and just be. . . understood.

I know for a fact that I'm not alone, but where are those other people who face whatever i have to face, or have been facing?

Problems seem closer to me than to any other person. Well, in those certain days.

9.4.08 15:14, comment

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day.  Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel.  None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch.  And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones.  And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

	-- Elizabeth Bishop 

8.11.07 15:12, comment

>thinking of the most ironic things<

The summer's glowing sunbeams know how to bring its smiles. Although, the Lord knows we've lost so much. As death and losses occur almost all at once, the commiseration gets to everyone eventually, and within everyone a mournful heart.

Why does the feeling of loss haunt us deeply? Like a ghost that follows without anyone's intention, nor compliance. It's diffucult to write with demure and elegance with a burdened, heavy heart. Discretionary choices hardly empower our senses. How often is it that one gets to write a letter of condolance sparkling with the free spirit of bliss, at the same time with the knowledge of loss? It's naturally odd.

It burdens me gravely that despite the profundity of words that expresses so deeply in this time. . . I can hardly express joy in condolance. Words can hardly do that. Ironic, simply ironic. 

4.10.07 13:38, comment

Prayer

I noticed that I've been judging the days of this past week -- how they all started, up to how they ended. Everyday, I start my mornings with joy and dreams, but I grew frail to reality. Everyday, there was a contrast, and I always let the sun go down over my anger and frustration. . . All I wanted was a day where I did everything right.

Yesterday was my answered prayer. It was the most hectic, the most challenging day of my week. I was at the brink of failing my tests for the day, I wasn't able to fulfill the goals I set, I got scolded, I got someone else scolded, I stayed in school until 8:00pm for rehearsals; tired, exhausted, frustrated. I was going home with another disappointing day. . .

Then I saw the moon, full, but dressed with black clouds. I saw streetlights sharply illuminated, and heard a siren and a variety of honks from jeepnies and cars.

But backed away from all that, was a sound of silence. And as I stared at the moon, it was as if its silence was quiet enough to reach all the chaos of this world, and still exist. Sooner or later, all I heard was the steady drops of rain landing on the roof of the car. When I got home, I saw the lights still sharp and illuminated, with the visible rays reaching only a certain point, but its glow all over the streets, just like how I saw it through the window of the car, I just thought I wouldn't be able to see it any other way. It was real, peaceful, dusty, gloomy. The rain was still pouring, but I couldn't stop admiring the silent moon.

The day didn't have to be right, and it was quite impossible for it to reach perfection. Where does happiness come from? I just wanted to be.

29.9.07 05:12, comment