With strings
I have a penchant for ancient things. When I was a child, I pictured that I will be living an Indiana Jones or Lara Croft life in my adulthood which then seemed so far away. My most prized possession was a 1925 map of the Philippines from an H. Otley Beyer book. Even in choice of romantic entanglements, I find a three-five-year gap attractive. My drawers are filled with old tickets, candy wrappers, notes, used ribbons, dried petals… most people call them garbage, I call them memory triggers or time teleport triggers a.k.a. souvenirs from a past that will never return. I am, after all, a collector of memories. Can it be then, that I am so attached with the past that I have forgotten how it is to get to the future? Is that the reason why I have gotten myself nowhere near my dreams?
Everything is fleeting. I decided to give myself a detachment exercise. I’ve been thinking that the cause of human suffering is its attachment to certain things, ideas, notions, perceptions of right and wrong and, most of the time—dreams. I saw my valued Solzhenitsyn novels on the floor when my sister cleaned-up our room… I just shrugged my shoulders and went on with what I am doing. Normally, I would’ve raised hell. My cellphone was stolen… for three seconds I went after him and stopped dead on my tracks and decided to just let it go... Another kitty left me for the nth time after days of nurturing… I did not look for him. In a way, detachment frees us from the unnecessary burden of loss.
However, it is the memories that tie us to our histories as persons. They are documents of the life we have lived. And a human being’s existence is after all, a weaving of fibers of memories and nothing more.
Quo vadis, Wei?
Everything is fleeting. I decided to give myself a detachment exercise. I’ve been thinking that the cause of human suffering is its attachment to certain things, ideas, notions, perceptions of right and wrong and, most of the time—dreams. I saw my valued Solzhenitsyn novels on the floor when my sister cleaned-up our room… I just shrugged my shoulders and went on with what I am doing. Normally, I would’ve raised hell. My cellphone was stolen… for three seconds I went after him and stopped dead on my tracks and decided to just let it go... Another kitty left me for the nth time after days of nurturing… I did not look for him. In a way, detachment frees us from the unnecessary burden of loss.
However, it is the memories that tie us to our histories as persons. They are documents of the life we have lived. And a human being’s existence is after all, a weaving of fibers of memories and nothing more.
Quo vadis, Wei?
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Requiem to a Dead LoveLike a dried bouquet on a grave
My love had withered Left untouched By his hands. It is dead now, My love. It slipped away like the flowers’ freshness Left alone to its inevitable death As he lie entombed In my heart I keep vigil In the wake of forgetfulness In my breasts, an epitaph reads: Here lies a lover Long cherished Forever lost. |
Awit sa Isang NamayapaGaya ng mga talulot
Sa isang limot na puntod Natuyo rin ang aking pag-ibig Nang hindi niya man lamang nahawakan. Wala na siya. Ang aking pag-ibig. Humulas siyang gaya ng kasariwaan ng mga bulaklak na iniwan doon kasama ng mga yumao. Ngunit dito... Dito siya sa aking puso nakahimlay. At ako... Ako ay naglalamay sa mga anino ng paglimot at paghihintay. Sa aking dibdib nakaukit: Dito nakalibing ang isang pag-ibig. Matagal na minahal Pumanaw na. Lumisan na habangbuhay. |