Letting you go

"If I have not possessed, why speak of letting go? Once I have possessed, how then to let go?"

Perhaps, then, the ultimate maxim of life is to tread the middle path...to amputate the trembling pair of hands that cling desperately to its prize; to moderate joy and grief alike; to relish the novel of life but forget the author; to pick up the crucifix but turn away from our final Golgotha. Perhaps, then, I will extinguish the flame by my bedside before I retire, but reignite it in my dreams, by the pyre, burning with desire, yet powerless to rip the veil that covers your face. If I could bear a passionless embrace, an endless race, days that pledge their drudgery anew...an oceanside mansion without a view...then in a room I could chisel your ivory statue, of wretched hues, and numbly carve away my soul for you.

Fisherman's Friend

Look at you, a portrait of misery, an epitaph of incongruence. Diminished follicles, decrepit eyes, disenchanted countenance, deliver to the world no more your furtive swagger betwixt the boundaries of crimson and tangerine, for that wild fire hesitates nought before boiling your passion over. Do you perhaps yearn for a final hurl of your broken mace today? Alas, the day you capitulated, courage has since turned her face away. Rig up your sails, throw in the oars, traverse between the islands of your eternal silent vocation; your sole beacon the flickering Will to lamentation. Unendingly thus! Even the fishes can know their peace. Only that they saunter the deep blue seas, while you wallow in a forgotten abyss.

But islander, I offer my company should ever you require. Worry not, we have our souls to offer for Zoroaster's bonfire.

Eyeball

Solitary orb of vision, succulent in aspiration, thrusting towards a ridiculous rapture. You detach yourself with a disconcerting pop, leaving a wretched cadaver behind. Why this condescension? Eyeball, eyeball, half your universe lies sorrowfully blind. Beware the whirring wheel of predestination; someday you must embrace samsara as the sweetest sensation. What shall I make of you, O you acolyte of false glories! Clamour all you will, for your hunkies and dories. Whatever ascends must someday face the canyon; snakes and ladders ever make the sweetest companions. Vamoose, I have seen too much, the acidic prints of reality’s impressions a cancer to my soul. Truth be told, I can take this no longer, every vibration a tragic chord strung on my harp. Music, supreme master of therapy, slowing tearing me apart.

Spider

Delightful, charming spider!
You have taught me well, my senses flock hither.
That capricious smile tainting your lips, even as you grovel in the dust.
When grief becomes as unforgiving as the sun,
Contrived felicity becomes a must.

If only we could, hand in hand, abandon our charcoaled faces
Trade it for a masquerade of multi colours
But even so? Bright as it may seem, to others
Darkness still reigns in our most secret places

Ghandi

They always say that a great contrast brings out the sorest inadequacies in the belittled half of the comparison. A recent cursory study of the life and times of the great Mahatma Gandhi, spiritual and symbolic beacon of Indian nationalism, illuminated that point to me even further. Faced with the tremendous magnamity of his soul, his gentle yet undying tenacity to exemplify his principles and his great compassion even at the point of stern persecution, it brings me sorrow to realise that no evolution or epiphany can bridge the gap between the two of us, infinitely seperated by time, space, circumstances, and an unexplanable yet fundamental moral chasm. While i am inclined to believe that humans are born with glaring imperfection, I am likewise fascinated by every quest to purge that imperfection, most typically done by pursuing religious and spiritual ideals. Ghandi has combined that with an unwavering political mission, thus broadening his enlightenment quest to ensure the benefit of millions of his countrymen. Occasional weaknesses aside, what splendour his soul emanates! How befitting that this present pile of filthy rags, dampened by the oily stenches of guilt and shame, is carelessly abandoned in some murky corner of this great shadow of emanation! Sometimes, the most intricate pieces of the puzzle can fall perfectly into place, when the player snuggles beneath a vast cloak of inferiority.

Losing It

Recently reality is increasingly scaring me. Material phenomena is beginning to resemble an onion, with pitiful nondescript layers, inviting me to peel them one by one and uncover complicated subtleties that threaten to burst the marvellous wineskin of illusion that I am convinced our lives are constituted by. It is almost as if a careless utterance, an unintentional glance or a nonchalant gesture by some random person captures a stagnant slice of reality and then proceeds to weave itself into the next fragile layer of the ultimate veil, and when that happens my senses feel derailed, though I may not even be the intended recipient of that slightest hint of communication. The material world as I know it somehow descends into a different, somewhat tinted pasture, and through the willows I vigourously attempt to peek at the elusive face behind the veil. Sometimes I make out most of its ill defined features, sometimes I am bewildered and appalled to find myself glaring into my own cursed physiognomy. Sometimes it becomes the countenance of someone I yearn to embrace, and sometimes the all too familiar saltish tirade of fear desecrates the perfection of my inner place. That's it, the enigma of reality laid bare in a magical moment. Partake with me, of the marvellous stew of love, hatred, fear, bitterness, depression, suffering and transcient alleviation! Find me a refuge in the remnants of your sanity...thus cries my wretched vanity.

What Has Happened?

As every frivalous sparrow must someday realise, the fatigue in its wings will eventually carry it back to its tattered, forgotten nest. So it is with me, I am back from my Spanish escapade with dustier wings than ever. And I have acquired magnificient Spanish vocabulary, such as "hour of departure", "destination" and "toilet". Lost baggage notwithstanding, (yes, Qantas better get it back for me, most souvenirs for friends are inside...) I shudder to think that the sweet memories are somehow becoming rapidly fuzzy, the devil in me resisting my meagre claim to a bit of joy in my life. The humble benevolence of the Chinese man who walked me to the hotel, his compatriots in Restaurante Chino, the stupefying elegance and beauty of Castellón mountains and the Universitat Jaume I, the towering bear of a Russian academic and heart-fluttering charm of an American girl, the erratic train rides and unsavoury train conductors...the bitterly cold mornings and nights. All becoming somewhat tipsy and fuzzy. Yes, nothing in me can possibly will the aircraft not to take off, not to land, not to bring me back here...but what has taken away the frosted kiss on its windowpane, the blissful chill of a late Barcelonian winter, the barely shimmering joy thickly coated with my weariness? El Diablo, I implore thee, return to me what is mine....do not let me die this way.