A dozen years of patience

The man you loved is changing
As life would jade his truth;
He's faded into shadows
And painted bright his youth.

A dozen years of patience
Would test his love for you;
Although your heart's now plighted
His dream's a hopeful blue.

The man you knew is growing
Now twisted by his pride;
He's morphing into madness,
And cloaked by modern strife. 

Your silence has him waiting
Your absence leaves no clue.
So close and yet so far, again
Thus virtues seem untrue.

The man you knew is leaving
Perplexed by your detachment;
He waits a dozen years
But now your eyes bring sadness.

A dozen years of patience
Would test the lovers' youth;
And now that age is granted
This game seems far too crude.

The man you loved is changing
And you would jade his truth;
He's fading into shadows
Will you paint bright his youth?

"Te amo porque todo el Universo conspiró para que yo llegara hasta ti."

Quiero jugar un partido de amores prohibidos;

En los cuales me encuentre perdido entre dos aguas

Sumergido en tu alma al enlazar tu cuerpo con el mío.

Pues no todo lo que hago tiene sentido,

Ni tiene razón o alterno motivo;

Pero te daré el sueño eterno que he prometido,

Y te aseguro que aún cuando me resistas

Voy a seguir amándote.

Quiero perderme en el sonido de tu voz dulce;

Apoderarme de tus pensamientos, tus latidos, y

Aprovechar del tiempo que me has permitido.

Pues tengo entendido el temor de tu historia y

Del tiempo que ha dañado a tu memoria;

Pero yo aquí me quedare para liberarte de aquel castigo,

Y te aseguro que aún cuando me resistas

Voy a seguir amándote.

Quiero sentir el aroma de tu cabello;

Enredarme entre los lazos de su rebelde crecer y

Emborracharme con la sobredosis de tus dulces caricias.

Pues le agradezco al Universo por plantar aquí una semilla;

De tenernos en cuenta al cruzar nuestros caminos y

Por sorprenderme al aprender que te quise antes de conocerte;

Y te aseguro que aún cuando me resistas

Voy a seguir amándote.

Quiero amarte sin condiciones,

Aliviarte de promesas falsas,

Y sin el temor que ahora nos separa;

Y te aseguro que aún cuando me resistas

Voy a seguir amándote.

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"...Los pájaros nocturnos
picotean las primeras estrellas
que centellean como mi alma
cuando te amo."

- Neruda

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Easier Said than Done…

Sometimes, the hardest advice we can follow is the one that we graciously offer to others – because, as illogical as this may sound, “the grass is always greener on the other side.”

We unconsciously, (or subconsciously), disregard common sense when infatuation blindfolds us and leads us to walk on a thread of uncertainties and incommodities.  The feeling of pleasure that we obtain from daydreaming traps us in a made-up world of fantasies and desires that sterilizes our ability to be critical and realistic.  We become paranoid, self-conscious, selfish, and discontented with solitude.  Yet, the constant sighs and displeasures of sleeplessness are not enough to make us realize that the best thing to do is often the one option that our hopes and desires refuses to accept as reality.

For some of us, the idealist mentality – which we mistake as “being optimistic” – impedes us from seeing through the opaqueness of a situation and we underestimate the origin of questions such as:  Why long for someone who does not want to be longed for?  Why suffer in silence while waiting for an opportunity that will never make its way to your doorstep?  Why make excuses for behaviours that are so obviously drastic and unjust?  Why put up with someone who disregards your feelings for the illusion that they will come around one day?  Most of us have gone through these thought processes at one point or another and have been unable to see the clarity of the answers, (which are as obvious in their solutions as are the gambles of the heart).  Perhaps it is our human nature to want to suffer unnecessarily.  Perhaps it is our hopeless romanticism, or some form of desperate measure to avoid loneliness, which makes it easier for us to over-analyse the suddenness of situations.  Whatever the scenario may be, it is most always certain that those who have always worn their heart on their sleeve, (or those who have become quite deeply invested in their dreams), are the usual victims of their own mental wars.

But to offer sound advice to oneself is something that only the truly disciplined can achieve.  We fall prey to our own discourse and our hearts stop beating the moment they learn to think – and by this point, the mind has learned to over-think.  Trying to stand in front of a mirror and reverse the code of impermeability of thoughts in order to believe that the impossible is merely preposterous is like playing a game of chess in solitude.  Perhaps this is why we agree to seek advice from external voices – because our inner voices are the echoes of emotional issues that stem from disappointments and the innate desire to make sense of the senseless.

We offer peaceful reasoning to those we love because we do not want to watch them suffer – and, sometimes, our ability to articulate these phrases are put together by the sounds of experience, which have given us a permit to understand the colour of their lament.  By the end of the supposed lecture, their gratitude is far less rewarding than the honest fact that we were able to speak and let go of whatever we kept bottled inside.  However, as perfect as the advice may be, it is sometimes impossible to tame it as an aid in recreating our own reason – meaning, we sometimes cannot separate our own fantasy from reality, and listening to a record of our own voice is not as welcoming as our will to want to engage in a moment of sadness, (if only to remember what it is to be happy).

We all want to find that happiness that keeps us feeling complete, and yet we all fear taking a step towards it at some point, (in youth and in age).  Is it the past that immobilizes us, or the uncertainty of the unavoidable future?  Whatever the case, the answers are always there, right in front of our adaptive logic – it is only a matter of opening our eyes, and, (if only for a moment), learn to detoxify ourselves, of heart and of mind.

"Your worst battle is between what you know and what you feel."

The Scribble that sent an Echo from the Past

The young artist had learned of the importance of inspiration - it was as meaningful to him as a dream is to those who sleep.  And for him, who had learned to walk alone, she became the freedom of expression; much like the nature of spontaneous creativity is to an artist's imagination.

But like every light that cannot exist without its shadow - and like every summer that grows to be dependent on its winter solstice – it so happened that there was an immediate change surrounding this new breath of fresh air.

"I still want you in my life,” she wrote “… in one form or another." 

He had only begun to read the surface of the lines when he felt a dagger poke his insides.  Like the heavy weight of wet clothes that anchor themselves to the limbs of the desperate who reach for the surface, so was his struggle against the tentacles that protruded from his thoughts, threatening to drown him in a luxury of doubts.

Awakening him from the prolonged daydream that blinded him since the day of their acquaintance, the jolt of reason attempted to soothe his madness:  “Maybe you are over-thinking things again…” it said.

“Yes,” he replied, “I do tend to create my own wars.”

“And you always lose in the end.”

“But what’s it to you if I cannot help it?”

“You are no more an echo of that which she just mentioned.”

“And you truly favour peaceful efforts in a heart’s race against time?”

“There is truly no rush if it is meant to happen.”

“I guess you’re right…”

The young man had reclaimed his senses for the moment.  And now, staggering in between the cobblestones of public paths, he echoed the sounds of the past and wondered if this time he would be able to abide by her rule.

“…in one form or another.”

Beware the Shooting Stars

The stars were falling from the sky, flashing their smile against the darkness of the night.  They spoke phrases without words, pronounced sentences without tongues, and their lips chanted the perfect formula of delight in the stillness of thoughts.  And these thoughts were swimming through and through, floating in the air like loose threads that danced with the brisk, cool air that sent shivers down his spine.  The songs of pain and deception coloured the silhouettes of hope that only his innocent impulsivity had created.

Growing within him were the scars of jadedness that ran deep under his skin – these threatened to open their wounds with every breath he took of the scents that invaded his painted landscape.  But when he gave in to fear, he thought no more of the aches that slowly devoured his insides.  He became pale and every breath filled his lungs with desperate sighs at the idea of a new promised map of treasures that led to a land of mysteries.  And yet, he took his compass and embarked on the journey to find himself among the emptiness of thought; driven solely by a cardinal of wants and bliss.  Intuition supported his heavy steps spelling out ‘c-a-u-t-i-o-n’.

Fear now had a strong hold on him.  It paralyzed his active limbs and immobilized his insides – And it was just then, when his heart stopped beating, that he realized he was alive.

Star Language

It has been a while since I last stopped to admire the prestige of the night sky and noticed the countless fireflies that decorate its darkness.  Moreover, it has been a while since I last made the effort to find the vocabulary necessary to formulate a tasteful dialogue out of the puzzles of my various thoughts - they are scattered, always, like the stars above my naked inspection, forming an image that's guided by the alignment of the first stars.

This speechless speech I seek is neither sophisticated nor simple, and yet the dots are organically interconnected to bring a silhouetted shape to the overall madness of my early time of day... The discomfort of this illusion has me losing track of time and space.

Once more I am reminded of the beauty that surrounds me; and in a gasp for fresh air, I begin to realize my mortality -- And so I write...

Forceful awakening of Things to come

My image was sequestered in a second's note of surprise;

Taken into submission by unrepentant claws that dragged me into the darkest of alleyways -

And all that could be seen was the clear of my eyes, contradicted by fear and excitement;

Kicking and reaching for a branch of empty air, unable to scream for help

And scaled by the unsettled gasps of uneven thought.  

It was a dream like none too pleasant - and all too unrealistic to be tamed by uncertain immortality;

Being dragged by suspicion, laying blames by the dark.

It was the day of the night - when dreamers are awake and lovers sleep tight;

Emptying devotion to hopelessness, practising lone walks in the park.

Had not the cold sweats of shock awakened me from this dark reveille, I would have figured out the destiny of my forsaken mistakes.

What Fake teeth you have, Grandma! What Fake eyes you have, Grandma! And what Fake words you have, Grandma!

Sometimes, words have a power to describe the unconscious... And in between their lines lie the falsities of their expression - the unmasking of their true meaning is a pointless journey if not endeavoured.

The letters were composed for my eyes to view, and they devoured each sentence; paraphrasing them, almost immediately, in the back of my head.  And I smiled at their make-up.
Had it been known already that this was bound to be brought up?  Certainly!
And how useless they were to the brief sense of relief for their essay contained nothing more than old tales.

These words have been written and re-written many times...I wonder how long until they behave and come to be proper to their age.  No more lies, no more fairy tales, no more edited notes.  Just truth -- and truth is, these blank statements are a mere echo of future laments to come.

Surely, they may be fulfilled to their extreme; as it is fake and to its necessity, for self-confidence's sake, may they be proven logical over time and not just another narrative to be claimed.

The fruit has yet to blossom.

With the Sun at my disposition, I am lost in a trail of warm thoughts

I can't help but wonder if you've finally matured.

How far has life taken you, and where are the manners that you once had lost?
Surely, you contemplate as much under the Sun as I do under the Moon.

It is possible that time, which stands lost in the abyss of your insecurities, has done nothing but remain still - inept, unavailable, and unfaithful to your wants and needs.  But then, you were never clear about your childish desires; unable to distinguish between reality and hopelessness - rather refusing to make peace with your inner and outer self.  So time never moved more quickly than when you were absent from grace.

By day, you were the aesthetic painting of perfection; so ready to be available, seeking acceptance under the embrace of stranger bodies.  By night, you embodied the wishes of escape; so incapable of loving what was granted, seeking distance under the umbrella of comfort due to inaccessible fears.

You had time to practice the discharge of cold, crocodile tears.  And now I wonder if your honesty has rewarded you, or if your many lies have finally taught you important lessons.

And then again, you could still be the one who seeks the fountain of youth; though your aching body demands immediate attention, (if not affection).

Spoken like a True Drunk

Amused by the words I gargled,

Intoxicated by the contradiction of my words,

I’m entangled by this wet drought of inception,

And the moment of madness that had me lost in her thoughts.

The warmth, the coldness, the intrigue of strange flares,

Lost in translation but without a doubt

An adventure to be assumed;

Not presumed, as I’d venture in my drunken world

To have her reach out for my hand

And entertain my illusions for one frame of time too long

To be noticed.

Scribbling a story of our own

It is told by the nature of silence,

Come to life by the disillusion of reality

And the wrinkles of napkins that are torn or lost

In the pockets of strangers among the dark.

Where are the drawings of my misconception?

Are they kept in hiding for all to wonder,

Or do they tremble under earth,

Unwinded, unvisited,

Disoriented by a degradable sun?

But I remain by my seat,

Alone with the breath of my madness,

To implore my thoughts a rest,

To quiet down the naughty of its desire;

Though it detests keeping calm

Under the origins of secrets that need to be claimed

And revealed by the dooms of truth.