The Contributions of Mankind

The contributions of mankind are not eligible for humanity. In such, times will cease to only be a memory of great contributors to life. And a life badly lived will resist to end for such a catastrophe, and, so, bad lives will come to dominate the world we know today. With lives, they will thrust themselves upon the good moments, making each one disappear. The lives of despair and dismay will keep on going, much to the liver’s annoyance, and such kindness they have shown through acts of courage shall be forgotten or, worse, stolen. The ones who continue to live on their own behalf will only live in mishap and so we will turn our judgment upon ourselves. We will see reflected upon the great enchanted mirror of everything only nothing. As such we shall remain.

Describing a fear is an unusual thing; it becomes a reminiscence of what you never wish to encounter. Then again, it also gives you a reminder of what you seemingly intent to avoid. Nevertheless, sometimes, once in a while, as frequently as the mind can stand, one must encounter fear. By doing so, the simple fear is what remains, and the possibilities are as stable as the pages chosen to disengage them. They will remain in those pages, comfortably living a life of mystery and thought, until the action overdoes the thought and the fear becomes a memory itself.
I forget whether I ever wanted this. Was I ever as foolish as to actually desire this suffering? Was I as blind as to think that everything would work out fine?
I should own up to every little detail of everything that has occurred during these past five months, I should. Another disappointment; another let-down; yet, I cannot believe I even had hopes for this great dissatisfaction; it is a completely unbelievable act which I frown upon myself now.
And, once again, I attempt to escape it all. Why is it that nothing ever turns out the way it should? Why can’t I, most of all, conform to what I have received – a friendship?
Who killed the future? Who made it into what it is now? It certainly couldn’t have been me? Me – is that all I talk about – myself? When did I become the centre of it all; the challenger of the future; the devourer of the past? Have I been so crude? It pains me to think of all this, believe you me; I have absolutely no idea why I make myself the centre of it all. For now, I trust myself to know that within the psychedelic rapture that is a life, one will always be the main specter. I do not know why it is so. I do not know many things, yet, it seems, that, what I do know, constrains me, not what I don’t. It is a pity that it has become this way. My enchanted nothingness has betrayed me – trapped me within its regime. It seeks to punish me for I do seek from outside its four walls. All these thoughts, they are too much for me, at this very moment. All they seem to do is restrain me and separate me from the people whom I most appreciate. It repulses me, what I have become. It was always my full intention to leave this place as soon as I found a reason to, but, here I lay, with reasons left to spare, yet leave I cannot, and will not. Suppose it sufficient to say that I wait for something, although I am not quite sure of what. I am a foolish person; that I cannot deny.

A Lazy Occupation of my Time

While I await dispute, I seem to be quite fond of the description as a lazy occupation of my time. It’s all quiet and somehow sad. The television seems to be having all the conversation at the time and, to tell you the truth, I’m glad it is because I’m the only one in the room and I shouldn’t be in a conversation if alone. I like my disorganized organization: books all scattered on the table with Dickens nearest, Wells and Wharton to the farthest side, my hair brush is close where I can grab it just in case one of my hairs fly off toward the wrong direction, of course I also have my trusty, empty glass of water and my deodorant from my previous encounter with odor; on the floor I can see my heartless, miserable work grappled in pieces of worthless paper, shoes over worn including my infamous boots (I shall be buried in them) and a bag of the remainder of my trip to Texas concealing gifts still yet to be needed by my affection; the photographs are nearby: there’s Veronica, and Veronica again, and again, then there’s my Papu and my grandmother Luz Marina, a picture of my baptism, Titi Cuchi, my parents’ wedding, and my parents kissing; underneath all that (apart from the collection of lifeless magazines never to be used again they being so old) are lovely paintings my father created when in doubt of his creativity and his time, and, of course, there is the time consuming rotation of pens, most of them being out of ink, others I ignore, and the amounts of paper I consume in exaggerated form. Oh, it seems it has started to rain, or maybe it was always raining but I was too consumed by my inside atmosphere and not my outside one, or maybe the rain is just a figment of my imagination telling me that it’s fine to cry because the heavens can cry without shame, as I have never been able to do so. I forgot to mention all the cables and wires, some on the floor connecting the television and allowing me to observe Diane Lane in the role of Frances Mayes. And here I am, on the leather couch, pressing against lonesome pillows. The two lonesome pillows are always there, and so am I. There is also the never revolving but still revolve-able chair in which no one currently sits on. There is a door and I can always walk out of it if I ever want to, but I get too scared. I’m scared that I’ll be even more lonesome outside than I am in. I’m also scared that I’ll never go out of this my beloved sanctuary. Yes, there is a door, but I’ll never walk out of it.

Caterwaul

There was caterwaul herd from distances all around the senses. Heard it was as the sound that could and would always be the best in all the land. Romance was stirred in its wrath, with a touch of frustration that tickled the strangest sensation in ones renegade ears. Such sound was indelible to the mind of even the most forgetful creatures with no brain amongst head. Lovely and so frightful was the wail that, even the ones in peaceful slumber stirred and then proceeded to be awakened. Suspended in the earthly animation and in the breath of those so holy in our intentions, the provocative emotions would agitate in the pride of its journey. Perplexed by its intuition, creature above and below were. By definition, it was the only perfection in the day, the only perfect sense of stability.

Nature's Orchestra

Running in circles is what my head seems to be doing right now. My pulse seems to be exhilaratingly overwhelmed in so many distracting ways that it even feels that my breath is being lost on the sea of inner continuance. I know not what I seek to highly. The only thing I know is that this is not just temporary, just prolonged. There seems to be a variation of sound (Nicanor Zableta) and a distant humming believed to be that of the dead and ceased. What I think is a beautiful black piano delivering my end becomes a dead violin only heard by the crowd of fortune. The deep sea collapse in between figures only the sound of screams, those of the water itself, only not being more like water or less like so. The romancing tones of the wild forest, with the wind being the director of the orchestra, moves the pine trees up and about, left and right, with the tone only known to the mother nature. Everything gets quieter and quieter, until I hear nothing. Quiet is all there is, but, in a manor of seconds, death rises once more producing the sound which had ceased earlier, only still in a quiet way. Strange is a sound known to be quiet, I can assure you. You fall in love once more with the rising quiet and then tear drops from the sky make a sound, like a solemn piano, with each heart break and each oddity known to it. The trees begin once more to play the soft tune to which it dances to, screaming and waling like a traumatized violin. Ode to the Living Sufferers and the Dead Peaceful, is it not so? Shrieks of the howling masters who suffer are among us now. Can you not hear the fulfillment of dreams so sinister? They are represented thunders only not so. The shrilling sound is filling your every nightmare with white so catastrophic that there seems to be no use for the fear anymore, so to speak. The voices of those yet-to-be are heard for miles and miles beyond singing all as one and nothing higher. No one can understand what it is they try to say, but, none the less, they listen, and closely. They find the art of the dramatic to be fascinating and largely accommodating, but few realize that these are crying out for their lives as yet they don’t have. Collective and beautiful as they come to be, they have no life of their own as they are yet-to-be and many for a long time. When they are to-be, though, they will not remember ever having been yet-to-be and thus their knowledge of our world will be as limited as the living was to them before. Run away while you can, my child, as this place is why they suffer those among us and the reason for the suffering before us. This is nature’s orchestra. This is the reason we die those who bare the aspects of humans. We all fall to the deepest sleep and then the stars bid us a good night with the falling of the sky and the harp of the night.

Stacks of Achievements

Though there were stacks of it, each one more horrifyingly bigger than the other. All wiggling about, threatening the mindless dweller of their attack in all possible way, the stacks were. Chasing the eternal clearing of them, it was making it quite clear that at any passerby they would attack without judgment and without the knowing of why. It was just the threatening of the movement that would make them have ignorant visitors who claimed, without their consent, that they could climb it or that it was as high as this and that this and that. All the need of the whispering was nonsense and all the looker-on people who themselves were threatened by the power of a fall ignored the fact that the greatest achievement of theirs could one day fall on them, hard. It was senseless to ignore this but that is what ignorant people do, isn’t it? Fall on them they did, and the greatest achievement passed out to be the greatest fall, the greatest disappointment.

Sweet Symphony of You

Sweet symphony that keeps me alive at night and awake at day; you takes me places unknown to any other but us two. Smiling, everyday after you make me yours, I am. Riding every night my emotions; the train ran up and down my head and, as though it was not enough, it continued to swirl. You know what this causes in me and, yet, still you continue. Riding my life, as a passenger might ride a train. Take me where I have not been before. Suddenly, day break comes. One summer never ends; one summer never begins. Sometimes I feel the day pities me, but then I feel the weather comforts me with irrational sensations. And the beat goes on to become only a sensation of no meaning. This is the only way I can be kept alive. Pity the poor one that is me, don’t you? It’s not that bad to be tied down by emotions. Chasing dreams seems to be a crazy mistake, doesn’t it? It comes to be the tear that comes down my cheeks at this very moment and the screams I can feel within my heart. I come to depend on a dream of a feeling that won’t be. Worse than to feel this way would be not feel anything at all, right? And today, in this very moment, as I pour my heart out to combine in words not even close to expressing the true feeling, I feel myself sink a little more within each word, within each thought. How I wish these feelings would just evaporate, these feelings that are simply too unbearable to obtain within each desired kiss.

Love is such a Wonderful Thing

Facebook is the network site that people use to find love. Those who already found it, use it as a method of entertainment. I opt for the second treatment of Facebook. I’m always looking for entertainment since I already found love, thank you very much. In fact, just a few minutes ago, I was taking quizzes on Facebook – Ultimate Tarot Card Reading – and my result was “The Lover”:

The Lovers is predominantly a card of the emotions, and it often portrays love that is divinely blessed, either by Cupid, an angel, or by God Himself. This seems to imply that nothing but good can come of this union, though with such a dualistic card there is always the potential for a sad conclusion, despite the best of beginnings. After all, love is like a flame because it can ignite the blaze of passion, but also because it can consume and destroy if used carelessly. Love is a wonderful thing, but profane or unrequited love has the power to tear families and lives apart. The Lovers has within it the potential for such love and we must always be cautious of it.

At least I’m a lover, not a hater. I wouldn’t change my love for anything in the world. Really, I wouldn’t. Most people would say that love was a pejorative thing – you’re either extremely up or extremely down. But, I don’t care. I rather love hatefully than hate lovingly.