Unfinished with No Title

How can you ever tell if life’s lying to you? Well, it’s in the way the wind blows… and how the clouds arrange themselves in the blue and gray sky.

The flowers start to hide their magnificent blossoms from you and the birds deny you even one song. You suddenly wonder, how in the world can things swerve out of a straight line when you thought all along that the bliss will be forever.

The path you used to take every morning is now filled with brown deadly thorns. The moment you lower your right foot, you feel the tingly sensation of pain that seems to rush through your veins. You think, “How am I going to reach my destination with this very painful journey?”. You either have to bold your way through the thorns, or stand there looking at the far side forever.

As you start to forward and inch your way through those blades of agony, you can only think of the endless cuss you can utter to release the burning sensation, but no single jargon manages to escape from your thirsty mouth.

The disappointments surge through you just as the pangs of hurt attack your throat, and your whole being. You’re alone and lonely, except for those thorns you have stepped and will still step.

The clouds are gone. The happy blue tint of the sky has somehow faded into a somber gray. There are no daffodils in sight. Even the morning star, Sun, seems to have hidden for your wrought skin cannot feel the droplets of sunshine anymore.

From My Depths

It would approximately be three days before the final examinations, which would signal the end of the school year. It had been a tough year for me, and for all others I know. We went through so much just to survive this year in college.

Anyway, instead of preparing for the exam, I chose to slack around and open up my Friendster profile. I ended up viewing my Friendster blog, which, unfortunately, got a taste of my laziness to post entries. I found this poem posted two years ago.

Honestly, I was surprised by the emotion/s that hit me when I read the poem. I couldn't anymore remember what I was undergoing at the time of its crafting, yet I could feel its depth and soul.

I really have no idea where I get the words that come into heart when the sudden burst of urge to write stanzas hit me. All I'm sure of is that each and every word is from the depths of me.

Allé

Faces float
Like silhouettes
In the wind.
Zombies jumping,
Dancing with
The deathly beat
Of the paranoia song.
The doppelganger
Singing to the tune
Of the murdered girl’s
Shriek.
Lost.
I’m defunct.
Watch me fall
To the pit.
The abyss of
Emotions.
Mort.

FYI: Alle in French is pathway.

The Wounded Soul

God is everything that each one of us has. He is always by our side, whatever happens. Whether we are awed, jovial, miserable, petrified, shocked, thrilled, orwrathful, we never ever miss His holy presence.

This poem was birthed at the time when I felt that the world left me standing alone in the middle of nowhere. I was lost and I didn’t know exactly what to do. But I did know something very important: I can call 911 directly routed to heaven, and there He will be… my Protector.


The Wounded Soul

I am a wounded soul.
Bleeding with tears are my eyes,
Waiting for your return.

I am a wingless flier.
To bold the skies and soar,
But fall aground after.

I breathe not air,
But hatred and pain.
I am punished in vain.

My soul is torn in two:
Heaven and earth,
They gash my hues.

It is through you…
My absolution,
My never return to damnation.

Come to me now.
This poor wounded soul
Is waiting for you.

Meeting Twigs

Split end (noun):
a. The end of a hair that has split into strands. http://www.answers.com/
b. Break caused when a hair shaft is pulled apart; Gives hair a frizzy appearance, and causes tangles. http://www.worsleyschool.net/science/files/hair/page.html

For the first time in my life, I’ve discovered spilt ends in my hair strands. You could not imagine my horror, no, flabbergast when I saw those “blonde” double-ends among my black locks. My gosh, I’m going to faint was my initial thought, but I figured that getting the scissors and starting to slice may be a better solution. So I started, with vengeance, to hack those stalwart “twigs” away, which have no business growing in my mane.

Oh, I was just able to find approximately seven “twigs” (well, that’s as far as my poor-sighted eyes can search), but I could not help switching to the catatonic mode after the vicious slicing and cutting. Maarte? Really. I know cultivating fearsome cooties in my head was a far worse scenario than that, but, hey, it was my first time.

I have a thing for those girls and ladies who sport their mane with those twigs. I used to experience shivers in my spine whenever I saw the twigs. You see, all my life I have taken care of my hair like it’s the most precious part of my body, even overtaking my eyes in the list of my priorities. That explains the thick eye glasses and my always sitting in front during class discussions.

Anyways, folks from my place really gave much importance about hair care and emphasized in taking care of the crowning glory. That’s how I acquired the HIV illness. Hair Is Valuable. I remember growing up being pampered by my relatives with hot oil sessions. And I’m not talking about the “Virgin Coconut Hot Oil Treatment” or any brand that you can buy in Watson’s for scary inflated prices, but I mean REAL coconut oil. We ask the boys to go climb up those thin coco branches (and pray they’ll not fall down), and to break the cocos into two so that we could carve the meat out. After that, we squeeze out milk from the meat and heat the milk until bubbles start to show up, then voila! We start our all-natural hot oil treatments.

I managed to enjoy that luxury up until I reached junior high school, when the boys turned into men who started to turn their eyes away from the aging coconut trees and concentrated on basketball (and girls) instead. I, on the other hand, also discovered other things to get busy with, and those hair pampering sessions became lesser and lesser in frequency as time passed by.
Time flew and I stepped my foot into college. Stress became a constant companion, and as you can guess, my hair went down the list of my priorities. I’m a sleep hog, so I try to get the most number of snooze that I can- even to the extent of waking up at 7:15am when my classes are at eight- to reload on energy. That leaves less time for hair care.

Every morning, I cramp all my girly bath rituals in just 30 minutes so that I could beat my professor in reaching school. Those rituals do not anymore include careful shampooing, lavish conditioning, or applying hot oil in my hair. Instead, I simply decant ample amount of shampoo or conditioner from the bottle, shove it directly to my mane, and swoosh water to my head afterwards. Afterwards, I rush to comb my wet hair, which I’m sure is a violation of the hair care principles. That would be like scything my hair strands in the chopping board. So much for hair pampering, my attendance record is at stake.

I have done this every day in the last two years, and here I am, frightened to death of finding another twig in my tresses.

And the morale of the story? Simple. When we care for something or someone, we shouldn’t let anything or anyone be a hindrance for us to continue caring for them. Not time, not ambition, not work, and not even the whole world, because if we let these get into our system, we stop thinking about those whom we care for. We even forget the fact that we cared in the first place. We stop being “humans”. We ride the flow of life and don’t remember to stop. We just take a glance if we start feeling that parts of us have slipped away, swallowed by the whirlwind. Oftentimes, some of those parts are irreplaceable (ala Beyonce) and we can just cry in vain with our pathetic loss. Yep, story of my life, err, hair.

On Bad Choices and Being an Idiot

Sometimes we wonder if we have made the right choices in our lives. And most of the time, we sadly resign to the belief that we have made great mistakes in choosing.

Ranging from simple things to meaningful and important matters, we oftentimes think we have not stepped the right foot forward.

"I should have done that, I shouldn’t have said that, I should have not…"

Remorse and regret? Yes. But the saddest thing is not having all these ugly feelings per se, but it is not being able to correct the things that we think we’ve done wrong because we believe that many things will be displaced and many people will get hurt along the way. We say that we just have to deal with it for the remaining of our pathetic lives, going through each day with that old same feeling of “I could have changed the way things are”.
We wonder if fate was with us. Or are we the sole entity to blame for our misery? We do not know. I do not know.

For sure I don’t.

I have prayed to God to greatly enlighten me over things. O, Lord, am I on the right track? Did I just do the right thing? Where am I headed with all these bad choices?

My life is a complete blunder. I’m not sure which things have been the right choices and even worse, if there was even a single right choice.

During our mentoring session in school, I was asked by my mentor to detail the career path I have in mind. What are my plans after school? What are my ultimate goals?

For a while, I couldn't mutter anything. Because nothing registered, not a vision or two. Nill.

And I gathered enough courage to reply to him "Sir, I don't really know." For sure I don't.

A complete realization then hit me. A revolting churn of the stomach that suddenly made me think what a complete idiot I am, not only in the eyes of my mentor, but also in my own views.

And where does this lead me, you might ask?

To my grassroots, I suppose. I think I need to appraise things, that I may hopefully see what is there to see. I need to go back to my core and ask my soul. This may not be easy, like taking an inventory in a Walmart store, without computers to do the counting. I'm now at the crossroads, as one friend would put it.

Probably at the end of all this, I can give my mentor a much better answer. And I can forget about the idiot that was me.