in him she lost herself

She wrote in here diary these very words.

this world i see,
though alone i be,
i am one with the breeze,
scribbling thoughts,
and being free!

It didn’t feel strange that alone in her existence, she was content. About her style, her looks, what she knew, how she smiled, what she liked, books she read, places she often visited…she was alright. She had no care in the world. She was happy single. She was so happy with whatever there was in her life. The feeling of contentment and self satisfaction in who she was were so intertwined in her that it radiated to those around her.

Then she met Stephen. He wooed her till she was head over heels. And what more could a girl want if a man was so interested in all she thought meaningful. It was a match made in heaven. The infusion of two souls, dancing gracefully to a melody playing. She felt he loved her for who she was. Bliss!

But somehow, clueless to explain what happened, he walked out on her. Break-ups are like that sometimes. The quest for anything reasonable becomes all things meaningless. She had all these questions running or rather rambling, tugging, crashing, in her. All she could conjure as answers to her question was “Why?” A question met with another question. This went on for weeks. She was not keeping count.

Suddenly it felt strange, she did not know how to be content. She hated her style, her looks, what she knew, how she smiled, what she liked, books she read, places she often visited…she was not alright. Anxiety reeked in her very soul. She was not happy being single. She despised whatever was there in her life. The feeling of contentment and self satisfaction in who she was were so shattered that it broke her into a million pieces. A dark cloud now loomed over her very presence.

And now, alone again she wrote in her diary:

there used to be a time when,
it was OK to walk alone,
at one amid the breeze
scribbling thoughts
and being free.

but now,
what was joy to me then,
are tastes of death,
for what I was,
is now lost in him.

a reflection is seen in the mirror
i see myself
but it is not me.

The fictional story above is my attempt to offer my own interpretation of what Peter Rollins has reflected in this fine post he wrote. It ends with these words:

Hence the profound danger of love: the one we desire above all else has the power to take away our ability to desire anything at all.

A purposeful death wish

The cycle of living,
Starts with an awakening birth,
And develops a rhythm from a child to adulthood,
An effortless blossoming,
Where the natural progression,
Leads to growth,
Our duty here takes nurture,
In harnessing a lively becoming,
And for some into something,
Others turn into nothing,
Just the stuff we deal with,
In the reality of living.

But when age catches up,
And our body stops growing,
The former bloom that started from the beginning,
Dwindles downhill,
And we spend money,
Paying medical bills,
Until goodbye welcomes us into her arms,
And we bid our farewells,
As our affair with life,
Now ends in death,
An either or of dying,
A beautiful and tragic,

Now with this fact,
Placed to our face,
Of a scripted breathing,
That will eventually welcome death,
Do we soak it in like a sponge?
Avoiding the task of interpretation?
Living as though accepting death,
The only workable reality?

Do we then raise our white flags,
Even before bullets starts blazing,
As that in war,
In the futile effort,
To spell out defeat,
Even before the dark existence,
We will soon meet?

But before we inhale the fumes,
From a freshly picked cigarette,
And read into the fate infused script,
That reads a life that will eventually embrace death,
Let us for this moment,
Start to dream dreams,
Infused with childlike curiosity,
Take up our inherent youthful passion,
To breath into a purposeful rebellion,
And probe meaning in a death wish becoming,
Something of a life now worth living.
For “we cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it.”

Note: This poem was inspired by the last part, which is a quote by Che Guevara. It’s sort of my poetic interpretation of what he said, and then using the quote as the final piece to everything I wrote. A purposeful death wish is having something worth living.

remember me

on my death bed
when everyone that cared
they would gather around
and think about my passing life
in a crowd be sad,
i always had this thought
parading in my head,
how will they remember me?

what would be there in my eulogy?
will a crowd turn up
and cry upon a normal man
that was not considered profound?
how will they remember me?

have i lived to cement lasting credentials,
made a good name for myself as an intended intention,
or have i wasted it on nothing,
just dust to the blowing wind.
how will they remember me?

on my death bed,
when my body turns grey,
and life disappears from its mortal shell,
i may ask the question,
but will never live to hear about
how i will be remembered.

what lesson?!!!!

what lesson do you get from making scared faces
shout religious antics
as if some greater being
shared your shallow tactics.
as you seek to harvest godly upbringing
and raise standards that root moral beginnings
but i get cynical
when killing is the means you make your reality conceived!
you only make things worse when you follow this route
you dig your own hole for peace you refute
some value I sigh when you call these lessons
the will be no end to bloodshed
when you use booms and weapons!

(I read this and I’m angry.)

Looking For a Sense of Hope

The First Mourning
Image via Wikipedia


“Cause the sun always sets
The moon always falls
It feels like the end
Just pay no mind at all
Keep rolling
Life must go on
It must go on”

Hope is the modulating sense of holding on in mourning the pain of the past and picturing the joy of the immanent future. But in most cases the mundane life on earth gives a sense that life is just a cycle of things going around and coming around. But sometimes this sense of cycle can open up to see that somethings can be seen in the mundane cycle.

If there is such a thing as the setting of the sun there is a good sense of hope that darkness will end and the rising sun will be up again. Life gets moving and does not stop. The cycle of mundane clarity brings us a sense of hope. If there is such a thing as the mourning of the passing of a loved one, there is another sense of truth in the joy of rejoicing in the birth of a new born. If there is such a thing as tears bringing a bitter reality to a hope gone sour, there is also a realization that some tears that talk about a compounding joy welling up in its present state.

Hope is a sense deeply ingrained in us all even when we least expect it to be. Hope knows the details of the grim reality that we are living in but knowing that the grim reality that we are living in will somehow be swallowed by a promise well set as an anchor. A done reality set in historical setting by the work of Jesus. His life and death speaks of a sense that a form of hope has died which speaks of how limited we are in having our own form of hope. His resurrection forms a basis, a foundation, a promise that when all human hope is lost and shattered by the wounds of death, life will triumph. Hope that has triumph in that distant historical past and will break through for the present to realize and for the future once more to be realized.