Truth hurts, but Lies Kill

Faded fairy dust in the wind of hurtful truths;
Sting in the eyes of lies that bathe in salted wounds;
However insignificant,
However safe,
The intolerable verse is played on the cracked shell of old Fragile Trust.

And to hide beneath the light of what would be innocent,
Becomes the shadow of an abomination,
Forgiven but never Forgotten;
However insignificant,
However safe,
The intolerable verse is played on the cracked shell of old Fragile Trust.

Winds of hues, words of clues;
Good at beginnings and its circular ends;
Trapping progress in the steps of immobile news;
However insignificant,
However safe,
The intolerable verse is played on the cracked shell of old Fragile Trust.

Words were sold;
Bought for small beginnings;
Their fairytale ending would  not be so obscure
If their mask was unearthed from the start;
Now they remain forgiven but not forgotten;
However insignificant,
However safe,
The intolerable verse is played on the cracked shell of old Fragile Trust.

Sudden Aches of the Brain

A headache like none other; driven by heat, punctured by stress.

A pain as immediate as a blink, taking refuge on the surface of my temples, rooted beneath the template of my skull, like needles that are stuck deep in a wooden plank; stubborn, and refusing to leave their hold on the rings that bind them.

Neither the lack of sleep, nor the unsolicited attention of thoughts - it is the mild seclusion of someone yawning out of despair.  It is stressful...

Words to express, words to destress...

Words, Words, Words.
Stressed in each sentence, emphasized by character.
"Why do We Write?" - the question was posed and I found guilt in such pleasurable querie.

My mind, filled with contours on paper, draped the gaps that expressed my stress.
This is a fulfilling week.
This is a week when I learn to forget to breathe.

Catching up with a ghost, learning to re-learn.

They met after some time to catch up on the news of their happenings since the break-up.  It was strangest to him because he had loved her so much.  He only wondered why it was that she returned when, originally, it was her decision to leave his heart in the dark.

Together, they made up for the loss.  Words were intertwined as much as their bodies, which lingered about, retracing each others’ contours as if they were lost treasures found once more.

It felt good.  It felt comfortable.  They were both aware of their company and how natural it became to be by each others’ side.  This was not surprising to him, but he wondered if she felt the same.  They were caught observing the lines under and around each others’ eyes when she finally asked, “why can’t we just go back to being like what we used to be?”

He looked into her eyes with a perplexed stare.  She did not want to be committed to him anymore, and yet she wanted to stay with him.  Silence had muted their speech for what felt like fifty long uncomfortable seconds.  He knew his frustration would get the best of his lyrics if he did not find a way to paralyze all anger and verbalize his diction in a mature and peaceful manner.

“You mean before we decided to give us a chance?” he finally asked; a hint of sarcasm was heard in his tone.  “You mean before we decided that a year had been enough and that it was time to stop playing games and make a commitment of fidelity toward one another?”  He pondered if she understood him.  She sat there with her eyes stuck to the ground, but it was not shame that overtook her body language.  He continued, “you mean before I made you realize that I was more than just a toy and you realized that we were meant to be?”  This was too much and it almost sounded conceited, he thought, but he needed to say it.

“In a way,” she began, “what I mean is that I want us to go back to how we were…no commitments, just two souls learning from one another.”

“What’s the point?” He insisted.  Although her suggestion made sense to him and the notion of liberty of exploration enticed him, he knew that they were not strangers any longer.  He grew to be confused by her request, but only because he could not understand what it was about him that she did not want to live with.

“Why are we going backwards when we should be moving forward?”  He asked but he worried that she would still refuse to comprehend his question.  Why was she so intrigued by him, so hurt by him, and why was she so comfortable around him?  Why did she want to be by his side and yet not be with him?

She stayed as silent as the night.  Even crickets sleep at dawn.  But time did not prevent him from further probing to find an answer to what seemed so ludicrous a request on her part.

Her silence made him uncomfortable.

“I trusted you,” he began, “and you robbed me of my heart’s dreams and desires because you feared fighting for something that could have been so good.”  He noticed, by her body language, that his words were stabbing at her, but he could not stop; though he refurbished his words to avoid conflict.  “I understand what you mean by going back to how it was.  I agree that it was, perhaps, the most magical of times for both of us; however, you know that I had always loved you and wanted more.”  A tear threatened to escape his eye, matching the ones that already dripped from the corners of her green emeralds.  He pondered if he had the strength to continue with his words, wondering if they were too accusatory for the moment.  It was too late now to pretend that this was not an issue.

“I understand,” she finally answered.  And with her final sigh, she exited the car once more.  The role had been played in his mind too often that it became a simple déjà vu.  It was no longer surreal.

He wondered if that would be the last time that he would ever see her again.

Welcome Ms. Allergies

I sit on the front porch of my home, reading, observing the seldom happenings of my quiet neighbourhood.  The smell of fresh-cut grass that once brought upon the childhood memories of my youth now hinder between the nostrils with a threatening essence, staged to perfection around the symphony of my sneeze.

I changed the oil of the Black Mamba all under the sunny shelter of today's beauty rays.  Memory would have me replay a role where I saw her image walk toward me as I hid under the weight of my car.  And then dirt made my eyes itch.  Thank you Ms. Allergy for awakening my song.

Birds sing, I sing - though not in sync, not as painful as the contortion of my core.  It is a beautiful day to be sitting outside my front porch, dreaming of what is to come, of what I will do with the days to come.
If only Ms. Allergy would be so kind as to let me go sooner and not make me cry throughout the summer, I will  take a walk by the bushes of her greens, and a stroll down memory lane of my inner youth.

"Do not cling or avert..."

The words are read and contradicted by their affliction to make sense of indifference – why now that status labels are diverted? Why are reactions so profound when once they were not?  And to betray my morals for a moment’s bliss and my values for a childish game; surely, I could not be so naïve to believe that it is alright?

The attention gathered was desired as a constant in the open past, when everyone knew.  Now lays a secret hidden under the blanket of stars, all to fulfill the selfish treasons of both participants – and the two who would fondle in secret, without alerting their miseries to public’s eyes.

But why the secrecy? Why the games again?

Why the discouragement from doing what’s right when healing wounds still wear their bandages?
Why the egoism to re-live what once was without the labels that would discourage strangers from poking their fancy at the status of a relationship between two old lovers, two best friends?

No promises, no directions - Just toying with the flow.  This is nature but unnatural to the cause of a heart’s amendment. One step forward, two steps back.

The steps are contradicting – the game will be played once more…just until all constants become too burdening to bare and the heart is overwhelmed by the insult proposed.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, You were the Fairest of them All….

I was replenished by the lines of an unborn dedication, secretly wounding all sense of senses, and confusing the state of absence that alerted my old youth.

What is it that was scribed when not all that was open laid on Pandora’s box?

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall, yes you were the Fairest of them All… and then you stole your reflection from my admiration, taking with you the short time spoken.

“It was cut so short,” said Snowhite to the Elf.  Magic was breathed in the air but the Elf knew too well of her train of thought.  “Yes,” he agreed, “it truly was.”  And with a glare into her indifferent stare, he asked, “what now?”

It was just a dream...Just an illusion...

It was just a dream; an illusion…

I walked on a daydream with my head held up by a string, and the sting of memory that became confused by the concept of nothingness in time – 23 hours of awakened resolution, and half of sixty to breathe with the eyes closed.  Why was I kept from sleep?

The road kept from me no secret of her arrival, and strangely as an unborn instinct, I knew of her presence at a distance.  Subconscious efforts made improbable but not from becoming visible by the orange lights of my dark neighbourhood.

“Why are you here, dear illusion?”

There can be no response from quiet tears.

Her smell; her form – these played with the notion of reality.  Has insanity finally taken the best of my idealism?  Am I talking, once more, with the essence of a remembered ghost?  But how can I explain this sensation upon the sense of touch?  Smooth, delicate, and shaky with an attack of the nerves below my sweaty hands.

I walked without walking.  I tossed without limping.  My legs deceived me.  The sun alerted me with a message of heat, and a massage above my scalp – “This is as real as real can get.”  No! how could I have been dreaming all day long?

The gasps in despair of fresh air were no longer present; my lungs felt rejuvenated in exchange with her breaths.  The dorm that once kept my ambitions alive became a shadow of memory touched by her skin; and the frictions of two strangers, two old acquaintances, dancing above the waves of unearthed sheets.

But it was all just a dream; an illusion…

Her fragrance, impregnated in my skin of skins, leapt from dusk to dawn and I carried it with me throughout the rising sun.  And the taste of her lips upon mine was filling my appetite, consumed by what little energy preserved me.

“Will you travel to nowhere with me, oh dear illusion?”

Dreams often give you answers for which remembrance is vague.

I laid myself on the empty casket at the corner of my room – my eyes suggested rejuvenation, my body demanded sleep, my mind requested peace.  There was no room for wanders of the heart after 23 hours of voluntary insomnia.

“Even in the distance I have kept you awake,” said my illusion.

“For you,” I said, “I would keep the days awake in the sight of sleeps, where your figure can be dreamed about, and the illusions become as real as the nights spent in the darkness of your light.”

Will I dream again?

"If you love someone, let them go"

There's a saying that goes: "If you truly love someone, you will let them go.  If they return to you, their love is yours.  If they do not, then their love never belonged to you."


Why?
Why should I?
Why shouldn't I just stay with this person and keep them by my side?

"If they return to you, their love is yours."
But how bitter will I be with them for having left me in the first place? Why should she choose to leave something that was once so good?  Was it for selfish desires? How am I to accept that as an excuse?

"If they do not, then their love never belonged to you."
Am I supposed to be content with this self-righteous conclusion???

I guess the lines may prove to be sensical when all sense escapes the mind. "If you truly love someone HER, you will let them HER go."  Such bitterness is proclaimed by this first opinion - it contradicts all desires, but truly, when the mind is calm, the heart obeys the hidden intent of said prophecy.

I guess if the love had truly been unconditional, there'd be no questioning it - and then again, if it truly was, she never would have left.

But why do two souls meet and depart from one another?  Is it that their love was untrue? Perhaps their meeting occurred at the wrong moment in time? What is time if not a self-made frame of open windows? The timing is always right.  The love is merely staged in different phases.  And I guess this would make more sense if one were to see things from this perspective.
Yes, she loved me, but it was not to the depths of the love I felt for her.  My offer was unconditional, while for her it was always questionable.  She thought herself incapable; unable to see what I saw.  But who am I to propose patience when the inner self has yet to be interviewed?

Let her be.  For what it's worth, love, in its truest form, cannot be damaged by the absence of one shell or another.

We are all children of the Universe, walking about a trail of veins upon the Earth - some that intersect unnoticeably, others that compose our re-direction, as we digress from one path to the other, (and then some that intrigue the focus of our discipline).  But as many a soul that meets our legends, only few meet who are destined to sail together.  Those who do not perform to meet our destiny need to be 'let go', if only for progress' sake.  So let it go, because it would be of no benefit to stay when the soul has misinterpreted the nature of its soulmate.

" If they SHE return to you, their HER love is yours."  How cleverly misguiding.

Saw you in his arms

"I feel the rage at the tip of my knuckles, itching to express their frustration at the constant virus that clings onto my progress."

With the pity story, he has once more become my enemy - poor me has lost all sense of empathy despite the possibility of his fictional fact.

And the naivety that she expressed - how I envy the emotionless.

"I hate them both."

no toque do berimbau

The sand trickles between my toes - the day is brighht and the sun is caressing me with its warm embrace. The water is teasing me to dip my feet in. I serenade it with my berimbau - what a melody we play together. Ie, capoeira!

I wonder why I think myself to insomnia...Just stand by me.

My mind wanders to where words cannot, and I reach a disconnection between body and image - it is hopeless.
The reincarnation of the devout and the guilt of it all...it is crazy in my world to call upon my worse.


This makes perfect sense to my senseless action and then, here I am, scripting words for a sleeping capsule in the dead quiet of dawn.  I wonder why I think myself to insomnia.


It dawned on me, at age, that I was sensitive to the idea of (or rather, the lack of) affection.


I know you're worth my time when you stand by me with unconditional affection, despite all my faults.
I am not perfect; I try my best to ameliorate my soul - but I do enjoy making peace with my imperfections.


The consequence of acts made in lesser valour, the decades of learning burnt by sudden bursts of flames.  The lessons upheld to withstand the value of hope; the aims of dusk to mourn the dawn.


Fourteen days...that's what wrote the pen of the once amused: Of glory and of doubt, in Sun and in Moon, in Light and in Dark.


Find someone who will see past your imperfections; someone who will care for you despite your insecurities; someone who will never leave  you in the dark.
Find someone who will be proud to love you in public and who will adore you in between the flaws of your time - because we all make mistakes.


More over, find someone who will not give up on you; someone who will try to overcome all fears; someone who will take a leap of faith forward, rather than backward.


It is easy to get rid of old memories when you are busy creating new ones.  But when truth is as asymmetric as your own reflection in the mirror, the fragile entertainment of deciphering clues cannot shorten the distance imposed.


"I want to hear our voices with the eyes of unblinded vision, for strangers wrote of mysteries, but lovers wrote of truths." 

You don't even know what pain feels like...

I should be sleeping, but my dreams were taken from me tonight.

I don't need your thanks. All I ever wanted was to be understood; to be acknowledged; to have someone join me in the Tango. But I guess, sometimes, giving up is easier.

Truth is revealed between the lines - I could have taught you to read between them too. I always tried. But blind eyes lack vision to fully comprehend what is not hidden beneath your presence.

Don't pretend to understand my pain. Don't speak with your figure of speech - the tales have been spread one too many times. It is an old echo that lost its fruitful meaning.

No, do not thank me. Do not love me. Do not acknowledge me. I am nothing but a breeze that came and went - a tool now left in the dark. But your new toys will break you too.

Bitter Sadness

The Sun, it shed cold crocodile tears.  Their sting is sharp upon my bare skin - I have lost the warmth within.


"It's shine is damaging you beneath the skin," I said.  "Hide its deceitful smile with the print of your thumb.... like this."
"You can't hide the pain behind the shadow of a thumb," said the young boy.


I hated his truth.

We were supposed to write history together...

Little Black Book, where have your secrets gone?
I await your return but my mailbox remains empty of your old hopeless wisdom.
Are you hurt? Are you lost?
Are you at the bottom of a recycled pit with your ink running dry into the extents of limitless oblivion?


Little Black Book of Thoughts - three seasons spanned your pages; recorded, forgotten by your last owner.  Know that I will miss you and the lessons you taught me through the riddles of your confusing scriptures.


Little Black Book of Confessions - to whom shall my words be preached? How will you hear me in the unknown distance that binds us?


Little Black Book of Old Stories - did Aquaman ever make it through the aches of his journey?  Has the Ice Princess left her castle?  Trice more, their stories were written and all ended in the unhappily ever after of the right encounters at the wrong points in time.


Little Black Book, don't leave me to my solitude without a final good bye.  Narrate for me the lines of beautiful promises that only fools like myself can daydream about.


Little Black Book, paint my reality in the idealism of your old tricks.

Rest in peace, sir

My eyelids were betrayed by the weight of sleep.  Swaying left to right, my blindness was no match for unnatural reactions that kept me in a straight line of traffic.
And then I arrived...

The people, dressed in black, had a gloomy feel to them.  Silent, but courteous, and inviting with timid vision.  So I entered the room.
My sense of smell caught a glimpse of something strange.  The dimmed lights set the mood for what was to be seen...

The open casket was my first encounter with reality.  It would be me in there someday, and yet, I could not stare directly with the same contemplation of tears that those around me seemed to possess.
Vertigo took the best of my stance, and I felt the weight of my aches be lifted by the presence of strangeness.  Spiritual awareness.
All I could see were the cold hands of the man that used to breathe, and walk, and talk.

Sitting down at the back of the room, I heard the prayers carry what was left of him toward the gates of something like Heaven.  And I could not connect to the serenade.  And it saddened me that I felt my discomforts be emphasized by my lack of curiousity to simply take a look at the tiny image that was now encased in a wooden coffin.

And I saw the falls under the lids of her eyes.  And the shakiness of his voice.  And the strong embrace of strangers that joined forces to deflect their positive attitude amongst the walls of the small room.

"Time to go" announced the lady in black.

My farewells caressed my best wishes to those who suffered directly.
My eyes carried my steps toward the open casket for one final attempt.

The colourless fingertips were at peace.  His skin, inanimate, was no more an empty shell than the coffin that framed it.  Stillness took over the scenery and my eyes paced slowly toward his face.  And there it was:  A slight smile escaping the corner of his mouth.  He seemed more asleep than unavailable.  "I wonder what he is dreaming about?"  I pondered.

And with that, my sight felt a jolt of serene madness that was only inhabited by the words now scribbled.

Rest in peace, Mr. Carrillo; Rest In Peace.

Final drive-by

I took a final drive-by, as a detour from my road to nowhere - your absence was made clear.
So I re-gifted the package of your memories and left it, unnamed, within your mailbox.

Feel free to burn the contents.

La Rosa Separada de Pablo Neruda

LA ISLA

Adiós, adiós, isla secreta, rosa

de purificación, ombligo de oro:

volvemos unos y otros a las obligaciones

de nuestras enlutadas profesiones y oficios.

Adiós, que el gran océano te guarde 

lejos de nuestra estéril aspereza!

Ha llegado la hora de odiar la soledad:

esconde, isla, las llaves antiguas 

bajo los esqueletos

que nos reprocharán hasta que sean polvo 

en sus cuevas de piedra

nuestra invasión inútil.

Regresamos. Y este adiós, prodigado y perdido 

es uno más, un adiós

sin más solemnidad que la que allí se queda:

la indiferencia inmóvil en el centro del mar:

cien miradas de piedra que miran hacia adentro 

y hacia la eternidad del horizonte.

                                                     - La Isla (XXIV) de La Rosa Separada, Pablo Neruda

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Asi es que llego la hora de odiar la soledad. 

Que el pasado quede sepultado - ocultado fuera de mis raizes de ser.  Lo unico que quedara conmigo sera el recuerdo de lo que fue; con odio y con amor de lo que ya no es.

Suerte, mi querida rosa.

Suerte y nos veremos pronto en la orilla del horizonte eterno del olvido.

That moment when you realize it was too good to be true: Happy Anniversary!

I am drawn to the greens walked on at night, and the breeze that seeks my air; to breathe it and to share it with she who would be my warm embrace.
The heat from her shell escapes her and is encapsulated in my heart, and I am to think of her while I cherish her image in my realm of dreams.

"But you knew from the start that it would never work."
Alas, perhaps a small part of me agrees with your disagreement.
"She, of the Sun, burnt your skin, and now you bare the scars of her absence."
Yes, and I, of the Moon, became exposed to her heat and to her light by heart's will.  I admit that I disapproved of the trips of insomnia while confusion caressed my thoughts as they punctured the slight sense of trust I felt for her - all because she was too careless to care.
"You knew very well it was too good to be true."
And in the end, she was just like the rest of them.
"The light of the sun betrayed her shadow."
And in her shadow I, sometimes, found myself at peace.
"But you knew it was all based on a lie - her intent was never to stay."
The games were played, and I became a pawn.  First time, shame on her;  Second time, shame on me;  Third time, shame on the Universe for making a fool of my destiny.

I now stare at the sky and realize that the clouds are acting as a shelter, soothing the burns left by the memory of her.  The time now celebrated is faded into the nothingness of a lesson well learned.  I walk a path of contradictions - exhausted by the efforts of a one-man tango.
The current breath of air is heavy with sighs and whispers, but it is ever so unburdened and refreshed.

"It was a good run, was it not, despite all the lies?"
Yes, I guess it was.

Remodelling old mistakes for Pleasure's sake

“Again,” said the demon, a thousand years later.

He crouched on the floor, beside the brazier, rocking gently, his eyes closed, and he told the story of his life, re-experiencing it as he told it, from birth to death, changing nothing, leaving nothing out, facing everything. He opened his heart.

When he was done, he sat there, eyes closed, waiting for the voice to say, “Again.”, but nothing was said. He opened his eyes.

Slowly he stood up. He was alone.

At the far end of the room, there was a door, and as he watched, it opened.

A man stepped through the door. There was terror in the man’s face, and arrogance, and pride. The man, who wore expensive clothes, took several hesitant steps into the room, and then stopped.

When he saw the man, he understood.

“Time is fluid here,” he told the new arrival.

                                                                                  - Neil Gaiman, "The Other People"

These are the "other people" whose time moves around in circles; endless - Where's the start, where's the end?  Where is the beginning of the end?

And if lessons are meant to be learned, why then do they go back to the past to seek for truths that hurt us and others?

Dear Karma, you have your games to play, people to hurt, and I have my old ways to re-acquaint.  But the difference is that I was once the man stepping through the doors, already aware of my journey, already aware of the wounds I will inflict; meanwhile, your journey is just beginning...

Time is Fluid...

Fluctuating weeds that grab and snooze, and tell and betray my assumptions - how they are untrue but quiver widely under presumptions that one would be doomed.

And what's this smile upon my forehead that pirated my youthful vindication? The affliction of empty words that sound as loud as the most silent vow to never abandon the image of self.
Auditory, auditorium; audacity they say, and I hear the best of puns to reconsider my chance of drama in the sarcasm of her empty words.

Gently, with childish infliction... Hot and cold, to share my room with the adorning conviction of immatured visions and the premature notion that it is not borrowed words in old books.

Stings and airs of heated frictions that beset (and bassett, whatever it means) her body on top of mine - the turns, the spins, the agitation of breaths poured and spawned and the timely perfection.

To reminisce it once more and; therefore, nevermore.
Time is fluid.

You were beautiful on the outside, but on the inside, you were…

The last stroke of my brush painted the soulful rendition of a fresh memory.   Beauty was evident in the emerald of her eyes; stranger than fiction and more mysterious than truth.

Their deceit could not be overwhelmed by interest, and the betrayal of inaccuracies caused the effect that would last a few short weeks – though a year ago would now be timed since the re-acquaintance of these two hollow souls.

And it was good, and it was magical.

I would not dare give proper rendition to the feeling of hate, for the image is untarnished in my heart – though the mind instills in me the bitterness of realizing truths; I dislike the feeling of being played for a fool.  But even then, I will not hate the memory of you.

My pen smiles at my favourite mistake – it was in the missing connection that I lost the sense of self, trying to discover something that was never there.

Words now empty, the actions of late were moved by lies and desires to stray away from something untraceable – like the memories made by the inner children within.

You were beautiful on the outside.  Inevitably followed by the eyes of testosterone that competed for your affection – and, like me, you played them for fools.

On the inside, you were….

Let the words flow like rain into my empty cup – filled halfway with hopes of oblivious intent.  How amnesia is sometimes desired throughout my insomnia.

And even when the visit is short, and when memories are re-gifted,  I shall stand my ground to be devoted to loving the memory of inner smiles – I will not give you the pleasure of hating you.

In silence, the distance will allow me the right to arrogance, bitterness faded, and dreams forgotten – ‘Tis all part of a bigger plan, a clearer reason.

Through your treason, your lack of passion, I learned to trust not to trust again.  Trust gone with the wind of your diffusion with indifference – but I will not hate you.

You were beautiful on the outside…but on the inside, you were….

It was about time...

They say that when you are done being physically and emotionally intimate with someone, (and when distance has provided you the time to detach yourself from all illusions), that your blindfold of infatuations is removed and that you learn to see the person and the situation for what truly was.

I'm glad I will no longer have to put up with your games and your lies.

"Confoundingly"

I have come to terms with my quip. 

The thematic rule of all aphorisms is concise and consistent with dementia and denial of all clichés.  “Men are generally more careful of the breed of their horses and dogs than of their children.” – the apothegm speaks boldly of my last resort. 

Where did the mantra escape from the composure of all prose?

The proverbs are muted by my mental inquisition and I, too fearful, lost track of the personal cupid within my epigram. 

Confoundingly!  I lost my self at sea’s edge, swimming with the geese that chased an endless pursuit.  The “maxima propositio” is frozen – a mirage of culpable inabilities and its idiom misunderstood. 

The adage has been virtuously cut loose, brève.  Where in my gignoskein is the list of gnomes that will quiver away justice and peace?  The theme is unruly, driven by a mockery of passion.

But now, oh now this pen shall bleed no ink for deceits.

A Picture of an Old Man

His eyes are a piercing blue that stare deep into my soul with indifference; observant and yet, non-judgmental.  He does not blink.  All that keeps me from feeling nervous are the wrinkles that escape the corner of his eyes.  They drape around his blank facial expression like the dunes of an undisturbed desert, drifting away from his analytical blue irises.  The wrinkles direct my attention to his hands. 

His hands are the work of labour and they are, (I would assume), experienced in the art of woodwork.  One hand is closed into a fist for support, resting just below his right cheekbone.  The other hand rests lightly beside his left cheek, modeling, with gentle sophistication, the ashes of a cigarette that threaten to fall apart – he has not inhaled its tobacco in a timely while.  He lets it rest there for a few minutes just as he stares, with blankness, into the depths of my youthful expression.

It is unimaginable that his posture would suggest any sense of fragility because one gets a sense of accomplishment when he is first seen.  This is a man who has experienced much in life. 

“What is he thinking?”  I contemplate to ask but wonder (and fear) what the white, well-kept moustache below his long, stretched nose will say to me in response.  So I keep the silence alive and stare back into his eyes.  I feel the tension between us as we sit there under the dim-lit room.

“Check mate,” he says without a tone of excitement in his rusty voice.

The Introvert

"You're not as extroverted as I originally thought"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, just that I thought you were different."
"I see...sorry to disappoint you then"
"I'm not saying that it's a bad thing..."
"Then what are you saying?"
"You're different...that's a good thing...but you're just not who I want."
"..."
"I thought you'd be more outgoing, that's all."
"I have done things this way throughout my various lifetimes.  It keeps my sanity at bay, and my boredom entertained.  It is this vision of me that you saw and that you liked...Why now do you feel disappointed, as if I had changed so much that it disillusions you?"
"I guess I just never paid it much attention...and I wasn't sure - "
"-sure that the introvert in front of you could offer you new experiences? Sure that this introvert had more to offer your mind than what your body had already experienced? Or sure that I, the introvert, could potentially become something more in your life than just some empty shell?"
"..."
"To find out the truth behind curious intents, you need to take a risk; take a chance, to see if you're able to move forward."
"I know that...but..."
"But what?  What do you fear?"
"It's not that..."
"Do entertain my word."
"I admire your sense of being.  I feel honoured to have met you, to have touched you, to have felt your affection.  It is immense, and I wished I could say that it is incomparable...But you're just not him."
"I see...so basically, this is what it comes down to...the idea of detachment from the past."
"I'm unsure...and I'm scared."
"I'd rather not waste my time on someone who is willing to commit with half a heart.  I deserve a level of effort that will guarantee me that I'm not simply wasting my energy and illusions."
"...I'm sorry, but the extrovert was more fun."
"Then it is good bye."

Mental Detour

I took a detour from the weekend routine to plan a spontaneous getaway - oh silly Juxtaposition, you had me gamble and I lost all my money.
"May the Fourth be with you," I was told, so I attempted to listen to the shouting contradictions.

The evening was young and I was free...

Morning took me on the road of broken dreams - on the wheels of my rented bicycle, I recalled the discomfort of promises made by summer's haze.
Heat strokes to my memory were inevitable and the upward tears of the Falls washed away my fears and assumptions - these were no longer required.

The day was old and I was trapped...

And night, oh dear night:  "What eloquent illusions will you bring forth tonight?"
The glow of potential Supermoons beyond my Milky Way, the thoughts provoked by its mirage, the spontaneous desire to take on yet another road trip with destination unknown to my eyes?

The night is unknown and I entertain its appearance...

H.U.R.T.

I hurt because I am able to feel; because a decade ago I allowed my heart to adapt to the concept of humanity - to love is to hate to love.

.

I hurt because I lost the discipline of self-control; because I invest into others and forget how important it is to be selfish sometimes.

.

I hurt because I allow individuals into my heart and they breathe the air that I breathe, because another way simply will not do; because I give them the benefit of the doubt even though I struggle with the concept of Trust that they so often enjoy to destroy.

.

I hurt because I have known passion, and because I would not know the difference between joy and disillusion otherwise.

.

I hurt because I expect.

I hurt because I dream.

I hurt because I'm an idealist living in a world of realists.

.

And I hurt because I live with Hope to Understand Relief Tomorrow.