Inner Demons

Heavens wept. It was twilight and the sick light from the sun turned shadows on the wall. It's unhealthy to speak to them, the shadows. Sarah Maclachlan told you a while ago that:

Time here,
all but means nothing,
just shadows that move across the wall
They keep me company,
but they don't ask of me they don't say nothing at all.

Outside, the twigs trembled as the wind made love to them. Their groans of pain was felt by you even if the windows were shut. What would be their complaints if it was snow to penetrate their pores? What would you feel when you're away from the confines of you prison?

You remembered Naomi. Yeah, the supermodel...She guested on Oprah's last episodes and you wondered if she's a liar, a control freak or a victim of childhood fears? But she told the viewers that no one could be blamed with her outbursts... Could you throw a phone to your assistant too? Could you kick a police man, punch a TV crew if you are a SUPER-SOMEONE?

Then, anger management was mentioned. Is it really that scientific when we consider the shrinks' way of dealing our demons? Or is this simply a way of anesthetizing human faults and failures? You don't know. All you understand is the fear in you that you will become what your lineage promised - insanity.

You see, you are now being paranoid even with the sunset and the rain. There are figurative threats a raindrop could make inside your brain. Your heart would beat faster when a caterwaul is heard not realizing that the cold could send cats to their basic need to mate. You would tremble when you hear Edgar, your neighbor, who would yell at his daughter when the pail inside their makeshift restroom is unfilled with water from the nearby poso. You then wonder if the girl is being molested by him since the mother ran away three months ago...

Like Naomi, you must do something about the things churning inside you. If not, this would come like raging phones flying to the faces of your companions, or the "red" thing she saw during such experiences... What is the red thing anyway? Tint of blood surging? Anger materialized into color? Or the devil himself?

The devil.... The devil!

You need to go out and shout that the world is on the edge of being destroyed... That Armageddon is here! The placard you prepared is now ready for the persons on the streets to see. In big red letters, you wrote:

REPENT! REPENT! THE END IS NEAR!

(art: northbankfred.com)

Like Parasites, We Feed

Let's face it. We always have intentions. We do some things because deep in us, we want to get out something from it. We read for some reasons. We eat because we need to have nourishment. We go to school to learn, or some reasons otherwise... We roam the streets to hunt or be the prey...

We use social networking sites because we have our intentions. We like to link or communicate to others. We also like to hunt potential victims or be the sacrificial lambs for others so for them to learn that evil exists even in the virtual world.

Was it some months ago when it was reported on national TV that a girl was being blackmailed? Her nude photo was published on the web by her irate boyfriend. There were some who got raped. There were untold stories. And, there are stories to be told...

The accidental billionaire, the facebook creator, designed his social networking site to know the status of the girls in his campus so that he would know whom to be with for future copulation. The story is now immortalized into film with the so-called artistic license being used by the filmmakers. But you think that those who are into these sites don't give a fig on its history. They just feed on narcissism and lick their insecurities to the point that freedom of expression would sometimes cut across the norms.

You like to think. For you, it's like breathing. Sometimes, you like to think out loud and you like your thoughts to be translated into words. Others would accuse you of being a show-off. But whom are you showing-off? Inside your place are boxes of notebooks with your thoughts for two and a half decades... Nobody is reading them...

But there are things that you need to write. It's like an itch that you need to scratch. But your intention is like that of others. You need to feed. Thinking aloud could be your food. Writing could be the nectar that would nourish you for you to be able to fly. Others could have their purpose of making you as their hapless victim but it would be OK. Life is like that.

In the end, we would all be cadavers others would dress-up for our funerals. We will then be remembered, then become a distant memory...

Now don't hang on
Nothin' lasts forever but the earth and sky
It slips away
And all your money won't another minute buy

Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
- Kansas

(art: GaneDev.net)

Crypt dweller

On top of the tombs, the flowers wilted and the candles melted. The living who paid their one year guilt of forgetting, left the dead for the earth...Life has to go on for them. So with the dead, death has to go on - some would be cherished and others would be just fertilizers to the dandelions...er, in these parts of the world, lemongrass.

Why is it that the epitaphs here don't tell stories? You see, you had an activity with your boss long before when he told you to write your own. But would that tablet synthesize one's existence? Or simply a poetic justice of his mishaps and failures?

"Here lies a man who lived a life full of fun - booze, sex and drugs. He is well-loved by his friends who think of him as THE GUY." This would raise eyebrows and could make grimaces out from the faces of the conservative flock.

"Here are the remains of a person who devoted his time, treasures and talents for the well-being of others..." This could be superficial too. It might create a stir to others who would pass as crabs in the vicinity.

You then think of such things: we are so busy acquiring things and performing activities that could be considered as funny and rubbish once we imprint them on our epitaphs. You would then worry about your sanity for you oftentimes envy those who "live their lives well". But then, what is "living well"? Whose definition must be followed?

Still, the dead must not worry about the status of the words on their tombs. Who would care about the grammar, the sense and the impact of the words? Who would care when the man inside the crypt is rotting with the maggots infesting his skin (dabbed with gallons of soap and moisturizers before) and flesh?

You could just be with those who celebrate life on top of the faithful departed 's tombs during All Souls' Day and tell others to cut the crap when they'd throw comments about the drinking binges which could sometimes lead to stabbing incidents at the cemetery. They are always equipped with reasons like: It's the only time we could spend with our loved ones! Forgetting that it's their own selfish intentions they're bloating.

Life is filled with mysteries...

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget...

-(Christina Rossetti - Song)