Ojala - Silvio Rodriguez

Ojala que las hojas no te toquen el cuerpo cuando caigan
para que no las puedas convertir en cristal
ojala que la lluvia deje de ser el milagro que baja por tu cuerpo
ojala que la luna pueda salir sin ti
ojala que la tierra no te bese los pasos.

(coro)
ojala se te acabe la mirada constante
la palabra precisa, la sonrisa perfecta
ojala pase algo que te borre de pronto
una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve
ojala por lo menos que me lleve la muerte
para no verte tanto, para no verte siempre
en todos los segundos, en todas las visiones
ojala que no pueda tocarte ni en canciones

Ojala que la aurora no de gritos que caigan en mi espalda
ojala que tu nombre se le olvide esa voz
ojala las paredes no retengan tu ruido de camino cansado
ojala que el deseo se valla tras de ti
a tu viejo gobierno de difuntos y flores

(coro)

ojala se te acabe la mirada constante
la palabra precisa, la sonrisa perfecta
ojala pase algo que te borre de pronto
una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve
ojala por lo menos que me lleve la muerte
para no verte tanto, para no verte siempre
en todos los segundos, en todas las visiones
ojala que no pueda tocarte ni en canciones

On self-reflecting, one relearns to understand the "why's"

“Haz las paces con tu pasado para que no destruya tu presente.” – Paulo Coelho

It is sometimes easiest to lay the blame on someone who has hurt you because you’ve distrusted their intent; when you learn about their past and their previous experiences, and you are too keen to paint their image so as to misjudge them and their present tense, simply because of mistakes, (the experiences), that shaped their growth.

It is easiest to overlook our own mistakes than to place our own feet in their shoes, until you take the spectator’s point of view and realize that your own life was not led with perfection, and that you can be misjudged just as easily as you’ve misjudged others.

Look within…

Analyze your own efforts to overcome obstacles – be mindful; however, and careful not to think that you’re the only one.  Others have tried (or are still trying) to learn from their periodical history.  Like you and your past choices, their former lifestyle does not make them any less guilty of wounding another; perhaps led by selfish convictions, and/or perhaps committed by lack of wisdom in the age of youth.

Those who no longer regret their errors are the ones who have already made their peace with these learning experiences and who have become skilled at moving on forward with life.  They are also most aware, (although not always), of their present actions.  And if truly they have gained a sense of understanding of the repercussions in their (emotional and physical) actions, then these are the individuals who will seek to better themselves so as to avoid committing further offenses against another who may walk in their path.

The past always has a way of creeping back; whether it is through the still-shots of images once taken by infatuation, or the words recorded by a moment’s feeling.  It can affect the present just as much as it can affect the future, but only if it has been left unattended and unresolved.

Be mindful, be aware, be at peace.  Live.

Once, when I used to love you, I lost myself. Thank you.

I only requested that you lend me the reassurance that you once promised; that you share the words that once ignored your walls.  I asked that you lend me the affection you so quickly took away after our stage of re-acquaintance, so that I may save face when I confessed my conviction and betrayed my own vulnerability for the sake of your attention.

You said I was childish in my ways, and that I became too predictable. Perhaps, I think, it was because I made myself permeable to your lack of efforts.  The only constant became the swings of emotional imbalances that perplexed the discrepancy of our time together...

And yet, I still loved you because when it was good, it was great; though, when it was bad, it was unforgivable.  The skeptic became beguiled by hopeless optimism.

Your words, (all the false and empty promises you made), hurt me quietly - I became blinded to the scars you were forming above the surface of my heart's tissue, unaware of the trail your games were leaving.

Your perpetual disregard haunted my insomnia and I learned to look within my sense of loss.  The emptiness that was gifted me upon your departure had the bitter-sweet taste of time badly spent.  And it has left a permanent disfigurement of jaded visions, though it only hurt temporarily in a clock with no time.

I once used to love you, yes, and it felt mutual.  Though now I know you lied.

But thank you.

Thank you for reminding me of my un-evolved realization that you were my favourite mistake.  My lovely muse, simple and complicated; my play on words.

In the distance of eternity, I will recall your unstable embrace, your irregular displays of affection, and your empty shell of beauty.

Because I once used to love you and that will never change.

Today I learned the meaning of an old lesson

Overwhelming sensations that instigated my discomfort - Those who truly see are the walking embodiment of their own thoughts; never aiming to accomplish something with a half-heart for the sake (or fear) of avoiding half-happiness...
The question was posed with the hopes of learning to listen to the wisest and to learn to act on the words adviced. Doubts and Aches - I did not truly listen (I had still contemplated my move with the actions of mind and body).  I was King Suchandra requesting salvation but refusing to let go of the desires that shaped my being.

If the soul is the mediator for both the body and the mind, why is its speech not heard through their breaths?  Are we, as human, focused on the language of body and mind, thus disregarding the simplest form of word said by silence? Is this an entity composed of a trilogy that cannot co-exist? The answer was as surprising as the expected response of my contradiction...

The initiation became a train of thought looking for its proper stop - one that was not found through the frustrations of looking for something that was never there, (and yet, it always was). The Soul as the outsider; the Mind and Body as the insider.

In the eye of the beholder the Seasons are passed, and words are expressed by the rhythmic dialogue of mind and body.  The soul breathes its turn in the Kalachakra as a compliment to the timeless - the wheel of no beginning and no end.  The tradition that revolves around the concept of time is expressed in the cycles of breathing by human consciousness... "As it is outside, so it is within..."

Random 1

Alert morning glory under the rays of cool lights, the sun greeted me to a day of unexpected behaviours.
The heart seeked answers to uncontrollable questions that proclaimed my sleep in previous nights; and now the tumour of intrigue is lost in translation among quotes and abbreviations.
The eyes are sought, the breath needs to be shared, but the invitation sent is not replied to until the follie is unattached from sensitivities.
The longing, the aching, the desire, the cravings - all gone within the minute of grief, replaced by bitter sweet lisps of foreign tongues that scribble my madness onto a paper rock; (this one would be tossed away through the skipping ropes of memory lane).
And I tripped, and landed face first into a suffocating cushion of hopeless ideals that are no longer sparked by external disinterest. What was heard became an echo of dream effects surpassed by the cliffs of conversations with deeper beings - Why the sudden change of heart ?
Easily convinced, timidly confused, openly amused, secretly enthused.  The collaboration of contradictions juxtaposed in between the lines of random thoughts.

I woke up with a tune in my head and I could not stop listening to it until I wrote about it

"Here I am expecting just a little bit 
too much from the wounded.
But I see through it all 
and see you.
So I threw you the obvious 
to see what occurs behind the eyes of a fallen angel, 
eyes of a tragedy. 
Oh well.

Apparently nothing. 
You don't see me. 
You don't see me at all."

Hopeless romantic ideals that attack and absorb and are aborted in tears full of fears that needn’t be mentioned due to the lament of scripts that are always left unspoken.

“Why won’t she accept my offer?”

Because you’re not worth her insecurities

“What does that mean?”

That I cannot answer as I’m uncertain of my own words

“Confucius and confusion for all Foncuius”

For what?

And it is all meaningless shelter in words that are as invisible as the thought process of my head left spoken without proper grammar by the language of a solitaire heart.

That’s by choice

“Not always”

You don’t have the decency to live like a human being so instead you pull this crap!

“Why so careless?”

I’ve had enough of your hopeless ideals

“Then cover your ears for these thoughts will not cease to exist until – “

- Until the lyrics are answered, yes, yes I know.

So what is this then that has rhythm and melody to the sounds of my morning, how inglorious (oh look, a coma!) – the exclamation is set to accentuate my final thought…

Blah!

When Options become Choices…

Time is spent weighing out the circumstances that exist only in myths, and all that could have been is lost in between the lines of risks not taken.  Time is lost in the contemplation of fools that know not the difference between a want and a need; and options are plenty, but choices sometimes need to be made.

An Option comes and goes; though, it will not linger forever waiting until the game is played, long after it is lost.  These seem colourful; painted in shades of a spectrum that is aesthetically pleasing to the eye of the viewer.

A Choice is painted in shades of grey – negative and positive, pro and con, yes and no.  The best way is to resist it with support from hesitation, ( f e a r ).

Why not proceed with what feels right, when all that would be wrong is to live with the doubt of “ifs” in the island of lost hope?

An Option will temporarily wait, play along, breathe and exhale – and for a while, no time constraints are necessary.  It is childish play for fools who feel that they have all the time in the world.

A Choice will provide a timeframe; breathe but not always exhale – time is of the essence for those Choices who are not willing to feel their efforts are wasted.  It is only for those who are risk-takers, willing to commit to an adventure, to submerge themselves in something new.

When does the Option become a Choice?  Is it defined by the fine line that separates a shadow from a bright silhouette?  Is it when wants are more evident than the needs, no longer a knot of confusing questions?  Why must an Option, which feels so right, have the need to become a Choice, when all could be uncertain?

Answer:  Because enough is enough.

Some Options will entertain the ego of the fancied but when the timeline has been served with enough patience, it is time to make a Choice and decide on what is best for the peace of mind, body, and soul.

This Option will not wait around forever.

Half-Cropped Photos

I see the half-cropped images of sweaty nights behind the curtains of heat propelled by the rhythms of club lights; how intriguing that it is mutually shared in secret when eyes are thought to be oblivious to their stare.

I see the diary of moments recorded behind a frame of smiles; and how wonderful it once was to have shared the memories of dancing in the twilight of deafening noises.

I see the flags of mutual interests, of the unprecedented desire to cheer on a stranger land;

but now it all makes sense.

Tell me not of his influence;

tell me not of his words;

but do tell me that it is over

so that I may trust this lost cause once more.

It is all unknown - a mystery beneath the breath of summer heat;

a blindness given to myself for staring, improperly, at the shine of her sun.

I gave it the benefit of the doubt so I stared directly at the soul being hopeful that it spoke to me of the truths behind its darkest intent.

Tell me not of his existence (because I already know);

and tell me not of his every move (because I could care less);

but do tell me that it is over (and be truthful)

so that I may trust this lost cause once more.

That moment when you realize the feeling’s gone…

When you look into the eyes of your muse to search for the spark that once lit your morning, and find that it is now as dim as the darkness of a colourless black;

A vacuum in time that echoes no sound but for that of remorse and frustration.

Then you begin to wonder, “where did it go?”

And the bitter-sweet sensation that keeps your hopeless dream alive becomes a fallacy lived in the absurdities of a surreal painting – unframed and kept in the aisles of oblivion.

And then you feel your time is being wasted;

Toyed with, tested, unwilling to commit.

And you feel the dissatisfaction of minimal efforts, or the lack of interest weighing you down.

So you come to the conclusion that the feeling has changed –

It has shifted,

It has altered,

It is misused,

Your trust abused, until you realize that it was never developed;

It has been misrepresented. It has been misjudged.

And the hopes of restoring it to all fruitful promises

Has left your desire to try.

It is in that moment, when you finally realize that the feeling is gone.

It's called Sabotage!

"I'm dating a lost cause." - An unoriginal concept to some, though few may lament concurring with the statement of fools who would lose themselves between the vines of hopeless romanticism.

Why let go of potential cures that could mend a broken heart?
Is it fear that drives one to commit the fraudulence of self-sabotage?

The excuses, the lies, the laborious efforts to refrain from progress - but you know deep down that it is meant to be.

Is it the idea of longevity by side of fools' gold? The commitment of growing up and learning to relearn?  And the side of a stranger subdued to emotional efforts; when two become one by way of plenty satisfaction that appeal to words as much as to the tools of  a step forward once every while.

How is it senseless to remain with hope when it is all going so right?  And to walk away from the frame of all longed desires?  Is it being too picky or too much a coward to accept it?

"Give it a chance," it is heard...but the words reflected are not translated - what language must it speak in order to be understood?

If truly it is a lost cause, then why remain? Attachment.
If truly it is promising, then why walk away?  Fear.

Knowing of the unwanted, and wanting of the know.

How confusing...

Mis-interpretation of Dreams: Time Lapse

I fell off my chair and realized that mine were not the only eyes that were staring at my fallen body.  With an embarrassed demeanor, I stood up and smiled past the exit door of the bar.

Laughter and giggles were understood through the white noise of silence.

"Are you ok?" said a distinct voice, "are you hurt?"
Do I look like I am fine? "Yes," I began, "yes I am," as I stood up with a mask on my face that would help me cover the spell of shock. What kind of a stupid question is that?
"Let me help you get up," said the child's voice.
"No, I am fine" I defended myself.  I'm not that freaken old!
"Are you sure?" the young voice asked.
"Yes," I replied, "thank you." NOT!!!

Feeling gravity upon my feet changed the stadium of my occurrence.  Where did I jump to in this sense of time?  The restaurant became obscured by the greens of a jungle - What the hell just happened?  Where is this chair that pulled me from my night of speculations?
And the greens became a serenade of games and routines.  Slides and swings - Are my hands childish once more?  No...Why am I here?

I fell off the bars that held me up, landing on the soft granules of white sand that cushioned the steps of all children that ran about it.  It was soft and secure.

Laughter and giggles were understood through the loud songs of children running.

"Are you ok?" said a distinct voice, "are you hurt?"
I want to cry but I will hold my breath so that my tears will not escape me. "Yes," I began, "yes I am," as I stood up with a mask on my face that would help me absorb the rays of smiles that ran around me oblivious to my careless mistake.  How come I can see myself suffer in silence?
"Let me help you up," said the child's voice.
"No, I am fine," I defended myself. I'm not a freaken child!
"Are you sure?" said the young voice.
"Yes," I replied immediately, "thank you." NOT!!!

Feeling the weight of my own body upon my knees changed the atmosphere of my event.  Where did I jump to this time?  The restaurant became the playground.  The playground became...  What the hell just happened? Where is the monkey-bars that entertained my affair with gravity?
And the sandy bed that cushioned my rear became a whirlwind of hot air.  Spotlights and shadows - Why can't I see myself? Am I invisible? No...Why am I here?

I fell into the spotlight beneath the dark walls - Were these walls?  But no walls could be seen.

And the light went off.
I can see nothing in front of me or around me. There was no flare of air; no sound, no silence NO BREATH!

And the voice of nothingness made conversation with the voice of unwantedness.  It was a strange manifestation... And I Enjoyed It.

Trident of Third choices - I knew your eyes in the morning sun...

Love of no doubt shows no removal from the unknown;
It is shown, and not under cover of paraphrased words.

What happened to the past?  Has it been let go of?
Are the dice of a gamble still left unattended,
And the games still being played among three?
Will the heart be shattered by the option of third proofs?

Is it me you need to show how deep is your love?
Or to yourself who seeks answers in an abyss of unknown questions?

Choices are granted by will of fate and the unusual role play of unchartered wisdom.
What to do? Where to turn when you walk away from the gift once granted and the return of doubt?

It is a ride left for the road yet travelled, and the proof seems to weaken the trail of clues.
Is it me you need to show how deep is your love?
Or to myself who seeks questions in an abyss of unknown answers?

The trident of thirds and twice more double the event - I will no longer be third choice.