Love found, lost, regained, and left behind

It sounds awfully cheesy, like anything and almost everything related to the topic, but love is the best feeling in the world. It's just a little hard to come by.

It always seemed so easy in the movies, where girl meets boy, boy asks girl out, they talk for a day or a week or so, and somehow, somewhere in the middle, they realize, they're in love. But what we fail to understand or to even see is that movies, dramas, love scenes (the clean and decent romantic ones) are not the whole picture. They are but a fraction of the reality that faces each and everyone of us.

Love, like everything else in this world, relies on two things, the participants' realization and timing. You can spend years, building up for the moment when the other finally realizes that probably, love is there but the most critical thing of all is timing. Sadly, this "timing" can never be planned. I find it to be more of a feeling, provided by the world, the universe, that guides you towards something.

Some people are lucky, that they need not wait long for that push from the universe. Some do not have that sensitivity to hear it and goes on to rely on their realization, which is not all that bad, because eventually, the universe will take over. But still, some wait... and wait... and wait... and eventually, they either feel the timing coming, or they miss it without intending to. Pity, really, for that timing never comes back a second time. It may give a long window period before it leaves, but once it closes, the feeling never goes back and you lose it forever.

What Follows Next?

At the end of tragedies and storms,
a greater sadness settles
one made of destruction and rubble;
and the survivors are left to battle themselves
to battle the smallest shred of optimism
or to fight for that shred and move forward.

At the end of tragedies and storms,
there remains confusion
and insanity settles within the perturbed;

the brave harden their hearts and bury doubts
and then we ask, "what are we left with to show?"

At the end of tragedies and storms,
there is a fine line between a new start
and the abysmal end.

The Surrealism of Reality

There used to be a code of conduct for this when one will expect the significance of one day. Where there was much drama built up, so when it comes to pass, you can soak and bathe in it. But that has long been a lie, a fantasy, an attempt to make sense of the meaninglessness of the days that had previously gone, an attempt at consolation.

When it comes, the day doesn't stop, the responsibilities do not halt. There is just that fact sitting in front of you. When it comes, there is no fanfare, there is no orchestra, there is no heartbeat, and sometimes, there are no emotions. There is stupor probably, then there is amusement, there is wonder, and there is the feeling of surrealism. Then it halts and everything falls into silence, a silence that is not much different from the silence of the other days. It is an empty and lonely silence.

And there, you mull over and over. There is no drama. Just silence that is not deafening, and the overhanging responsibilities of life.

On Moving Forward – 11/15/2010

There was a man who wore everything backwards. Except for his glasses, everything else was worn backwards.

So a child came to him and told him, “Hey mister, your clothes are backwards.”

“My body seems to be on backwards I guess,” he answers. “You see it doesn’t want to look ahead.”

So the child asks again, “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t walk backwards.”

“Because my feet think we’re moving backwards.”

“Then why is your head not following your body?”

“My head seems to know that this is the front and wants to move forward.”

Then he pauses.

“Hopefully, I don’t have it backwards.”

Uncertainties (03/27/2012)

"I am lacking",
that sheer feeling of release
the moment those words escape
the lips, is also empty.

When was it? The first time
it knew no lightness, no comfort.

When was it? It sounded so crisp
so fragile that they'd break
and stop being true.

Here, it had stopped.
Without promise of meaning,
of solution, of resolution, of end.

Like it had always truly meant
to abandon it's self.