The Dreamer

A dream in a waking life; a taste of snow and joyous pain.
She broke through the door so she could hear me;
have not let a soul come near me.
But the wind blew a different way;
and from seas of blue and clouds of grey,
she vowed to forever accept me.
Have not let a soul come to know me.
The world showed new color:
every face, every flower,
comes smiling with eyes gleaming at me.
Have not let my soul come to be.
A self re-alignment to breathe a new life and
forget the sour weeps of my sorrow;
how I hope that there won't be tomorrow.
As the mind starts to see
the wounded truth, reality;
a broken-winged bird never flies free.
Will never let my soul accept me.

 

Date: Nov 30, 2012 

Where: Home

Don't be a Sissyphussy

They say that you can go as far as your the eyes can see, but there’s more.
You can go as far as your thoughts can think.
And on that day, you cut out the thread that has sewn your eyes shut
and realize that you’ve been a slave in a room full of strangers.
Your feet wrapped in burning cloth and skin, forced to walk an endless plank.
Buckled long sleeves like chains holding you down,
screaming “you cannot celebrate a life that is not yours!”
but it’s the only thing you can really own.
 
Been stuck in this web for so long the spider’s teeth starts to tickle.
But if you ask yourself, “why are you here?”
don’t dare comeback with an, “I don’t know.”
 
For over a year I’ve been living with a collar around my neck that feels like a wrestler’s grip,
and the greatest day of my life was reading a book in a train crowded with eyes, shoulders and limbs.
And if you asked me then the same question.
I’d say, that “I understand...”
“I understand that we must be conscious of ourselves, and of other people. That life is too beautiful to spend with our

minds tucked away in the corners of a cellar, being infested by rodents,

instead of being shared like a breeze of a mountain, so gentle it could reach your soul.
 
If a poem that takes over a year to write, is what it takes
for other people to realize how lucky they are to live,
and how unlucky they are to simply exist.
Then this is my biggest achievement.
And I’d finally unbuckle the chains on my wrist,
free myself of the collar around my neck,
raise my arms high and rejoice.

 

You are free, if you put your mind to it.

 

 

Date: Oct 7 (5.30am)
Where: room/bathroom

gniyepoc

Let me know how you’re feeling: every place, every person, every moment must be unique, and I know it doesn’t give your personhood justice, but I like to think that I know you (the important parts at least, of what makes you), and if there’s anything ----e doesn’t lack, it’s the passion for life and reflection. You told me before that you want to share with others (let it be the world!), that life is beautiful, and that each of us has the will and power to choose our road to happiness, and it matters little how we get there, how we struggle; if by foot, by motorbike, by hitch-hike, by truck, the hell with the road!- by yacht, by plane, by rocket, we can eventually get there. I’ve come to believe that the mind is not part of our ordinary hominal relation with time. What I mean is that although our bones will brittle, hair ashen, and skin wrinkle, the mind can jump from one “age” to another, it can travel to the deepest corners of our fantasies, to the farthest galaxies of our imagination. And I trust that whenever you reflect about your existence, labored by your experiences, that who you are must have changed. You mind must have explored just as much ground as your feet, and I don’t want to miss out any of it. Share any random footnote, no need for any chronological order, I hate order, am born in chaos, share even the tiniest scribbles along the margins. I’m better, still struggling with my own illness but I’m getting close to acceptance. I guess, in a way, we’re both standing at opposite sides of a balancing beam: I explore intangible worlds like the past, family history, my troubled mind, you explore the world of reality outside it (and within of course). I’m Dostoevsky’s Dreamer. True. I’ve become more compassionate, which I know I’ve always been, and I suffer/ed exceptional guilt hiding it.

To the woman who slept on my bed

Here I lay,
clothed in its warmth,

familiarizing a body

with the sultry air

your skin embarked; as my

fingers guide their way

through the rumpled sheets

mapping what was your movement.

I plant my face

on the pillow to inhale

the scent of your energy:

dry sweat, tears, saliva; a narrow

passage

toward a fragment

of your being,

as I reside to the only region

where I can possess you.

When: June 16, 2011

Where: room

lost cause

I watch the blue sea before me, meet with the clouds and the breath of the sun,
And I can only imagine how it must feel
to have your smile here with me;
humming songs and gently plucking
the tightened strings of my heart.

draftee

February 4, 2012

Story

Boy in rebel age decides to sneak out of his house to meet someone his friends hooked him up with. His parents were going to find out by asking his brother to fetch him and he gets pressured by what to do just hide in his room. He tells his brother. Didn’t panic too much because he was in the peak of bliss. His mum later on finds out when she entered his room to share beautiful family news. Heartbreaker, she got disappointed and torn. Waits for him. He arrives at the village gate walking home and gets followed by a scary transsexual wanting to have sex and chasing him. He arrives home frightened while the mom thinks its directed at her. He arrives in his parent’s room upstairs next to the main window and he peaks outside with his dog barking and the tranny still standing outside. He gets frightened even more and panics.

Perspectives:

Boy

-          Rebellion age

-          Infatuation and secretive shyness

-          Friendship fun

-          Midnight experience on the road home

-          Frightening experience with the tranny and Mum

Mum

-          Beautiful news with husband

-          Turning point in life: raising the children expensively and not receiving the same – family background

-          Disappointment at sun

-          Rage of the 2^nd above

Brother

-          Inner friendship with brother

-          Frightening situation between brother or parents

Lover

-          Evil deeds and fakeness; highlights the ironic parallelisms of their feelings for one another

Tranny

-          Humiliating life and desperation

Background Characters:

Friends of main character

Father’s perspective and his own personality

Lover’s family and success

The people tranny meets

Events

Mom touring the new maid and telling her about his eldest’s dog and how much he loves dogs

Drunk conversations with friends

Despair and pleasure by the tranny

Boring job by the guards via conversation

Father’s POV

Mugging at the bus

Lover’s past sentiments

Mini stories for each of his friends

Maid’s perspective of the city

The thrill of climbing off the fence and being conscious of your escape

I saw stacks of cash in the back of his trunk man.. I was curious about it, at the same time nervous because it brought to my attention again how the past days Roy was acting a little bit peculiar. I mean, why does a man like him, carry this much at one go? Then it got me thinking how the last week at Fred’s party he was sharing this fun scene that he saw late night of an 80’s film about a group of guys managing to rob a bank in 13minutes. Everyone was amused by it but he was very cautious and critical about what we thought about the way the guys did it. He did this in a way as if your answer would save his life. Then 4 days later I read in a paper about the very same planned robbery, only it wasn’t 13 minutes but 15. They barely got away. One of them got shot. One of the robbers.

Roy’s perspective of robbing a bank and why

Has to give it away

Mind

Dec 16, 2011

There are two types of reflections that compromise our consciousness. The first is the focused conscious side. Where from the outsider's point of view, a person may just be a zombie acting out life and exposing one's character by the means of behaviour alone. Yet the actual real thing may be different. The subject may actually be experiencing different levels and progress of thought. One could be so pre-occupied that they switch realities without knowing it. Now to discuss the second type, we could take the same example only the subject doesn't follow his/her thoughts but merely let's it free. This is the subconscious type and if we actively judge people based on their behaviour alone, we can never say when one is in such type of consciousness or the other. The interesting topic which is good to ponder is that we can agree about the demarcating line the divides these two types, and one open door towards this proof is how sometimes we become conscious of being unconscious; we catch ourselves off guard yet our physical body of a machine was actively operating. I’ve had deep reflections while watching a film that I actually understood, as if a conscious part of me was multitasking by watching both the film and listening attentively to my internal voice. When consciousness leaves the mind, where does it go? Does the question matter only if it goes back (life)?

one night

And I rolled my seat back and I heard a shriek, It was mojo getting squeezed by the tire of my seat and crying in pain. I immediately opened the lights and extended my arms to the running dog approaching me. I rubbed my hands around his furry body searching for the swollen part, the part that hurts where is it? And he licked my face and I embraced her. Whisper, "I didn't mean it, I'm sorry i hurt you". And suddenly a shocking thought buried me, how come I can never get myself to be like that with people? Especially when I hurt them.

.

Z - Back Again

discontinued project

Nov 23-24, 2011

The brittle road of Banaba St. did not fail to push Roy off balance in his seat as he was texting candidly with his right hand and gripping the open mouth of his broken-zippered bag with his left. He wasn’t aware of his reflexes, when the back of his left elbow grazed smoothly with the cold skin of Rita. He saw his eyes touching hers, as if both were admitting to something; maybe just a quick reunion of two organisms that have divided for millions of years ago only to reunite once again. They were dark and secretive, he thought, but the outline of her face and the dashboard of her smile that made his eyes want to park suggested a mysterious story. The touch reminded him of intimacy. Not from romancing of the soul but physical and sensual intimacy, a premise for the next possible thing. Love. But Roy did not think that. He never thought about that word and what its essence means. For him, emotions belong to only one being and that’s the self. The one mind. And no one else can experience the same exact thing. In that case not only language has a barrier but even empathy, even any kind of understanding, especially this.

“I’m sorry.” Rita said with dreaming smile. She was looking at his eyes like a mountaineer looks at a summit being only a few steps away. But behind the look she was thinking of Geraldo, her fiancé, and how their conversation a few hours ago went perfectly for her favour. She said she’d only agree to go with him to Paris for the week, a gift he planned for 5 gruelling months, if they tried to have their first baby there. Geraldo, who treats Rita like she’s a part of him, filled with tension and bliss; a thrilling romance he imagined existed only in Tolstoy novels. He treats her like he treats himself. And so when he’s inspired, which was often, he inspires her as well. And the free loving spirit of Rita, which lingers like a leaf, fell on the helipad of admiration towards his passion for the simplest pleasures. It made Geraldo even happier when he realized that it must have taken huge leaps of commitment for Rita to propose such choice. It meant that she understood him the same way. She now treats Geraldo like he’s a part of her. She treats him like he treats himself. And their relationship is a revolving cycle of an ideal life. So when Rita dropped her eyes from Roy and to the long open road outside the jeep, she looked so peaceful and friendly. And this startled him; he hasn’t been close to anybody for months, so he took this as a responsive expression that is a sign of interest.

“It’s okay.” He said with a raspy voice. Embarrassed, he tried to snatch and hide it under a small cough and immediately swallowed spit. And a few more little coughs the sound of rocks grinding pavement just to make sure the voice won’t come back again. What an odd reply, she apologized.

The road went flat now and he still resisted letting go of the seductive image that was blinking sharply in his mind. He was conscious now, and he reflected about it. He wondered whether she felt a change of ambience too and if so, was she attracted to him. He stole a glance of her when he pretended to look behind him and at the road and tried his best to memorize her face, then her body, thighs and feet, the short moment he looked away. He got excited. She’s beautiful, he thought, what wonderful carved body, and the smile, oh that smile, I could lie on little fabrics of her smile all of my life. He waited for another shattered road that would give him the small chances of getting close to her, maybe feel her whole arm against mine and finally imagine being embraced by her. He wondered how she smelled like, and if sniffing her nape would make her giggle.

post-sunrise early mornings

Nov 17, 2011

It starts with a bath, shortly after waking up. The cold showers on your face feeling like a gently dive into a lake. And the window beside you shows rays of the rising sun accompanied by the flirting smell of bacon and eggs creeping from the kitchen.

artsy

Nov 7, 2011

What good is ART? Thanks to Friedrich Caspar I’ve felt how it is to be surrounded by the sea of fog standing atop the mountains of Bohemia. I know how peasants spent their late afternoons perfumed in sweat and mud as they celebrate with vodka in nineteenth century Russia. I feel like I’ve been in Vienna, sharing conversations with Nietzsche, Breuer and Freud, after reading Irvin Yalom’s novel for just one week. I’ve felt how it is to grow as a lower class adolescent with a rich friend in the early 90’s of Mexico, just by watching a film by Alfonso Cuaron for two hours! I’ve fallen in love listening to Sigur Ros and thinking about the right person, and know it is the right person because I know myself, without even leaving the room. And you ask me what good is ART?! Go ahead and tire your lungs with your idle talks and lock your jaws with your pathetic laughs. Life is just too short to let it slip away.

black hole

Nov 2, 2011

                It felt like a broken vacuum was inserted between my internal organs, deliberately switching on and off. And now I am the vacuum, slowly getting bigger, like a spreading disease, and fighting for space. No kick to the stomach could evoke such pain; it simply is the loss of something I never had. But what I never had was the dream that got me through. I relive the memories over and over and stepped inside my own character as a new person, with new choices, new thoughts, and new direction. And there’s not much regret than the fact that I did love her and knew it too late. I imagine conversations we’ve never had, how she asked me if I considered her as a good friend, and I’d reply to the positive, and she’d ask why and I’d say it’s because, “you know more about me than any person ever could, and yet you’re still here.” And it’s true, I speak her things about me I didn’t even know myself until the words had left my tongue and had drifted their way to her gentle and kind ears. She made me realize how much sadness is actually buried inside me, yet she also carried the only cure for it. When she’d have her occasional troubles regarding her family and feel that she’s bleeding my ear with all her anger, piercing like blades, I’d imagine her asking me after wiping a tear and exhaling a swift gush of air, “Have you ever judged me?” And I’d reply, “Never. And if ever I did, I have always judged you beautifully.”

language

Ever thought that maybe our emotions are just conflicts between our aspects of cognition and our faculty of language?
Without language, we may never find an easier ground to understand why we have such intentional states. Thanks to language, we can try and find its causes and foundation. Although the faculty of language may also carry the burden of making things far more confusing. Maybe emotions are just conflicts of suspended beliefs?

1-11-11

I never tire reading, and when I’m not fully conscious of the author’s words I often leap from the pages of the book to the colourful scenery before my eyes. In front of me are mannequins designed to commercialize clothes for Goddesses or female athletes. There had been numerous passerbys who subconsciously stare at them and I’d like to imagine what it is in their minds that they were thinking:

“Oh, I’d need to swallow my vices and shit them out just to have the discipline to get that body and make that dress work for me.”

“Well that would really look hot on Isabela—I should definitely meet with her again, just need to make up another excuse to my wife.”

All these internal fantasies belong to no one but me. Because we all must understand that no one thinks about such things. It is not because people are close-minded or that they are all walking zombies waiting for their next share of blood, I don’t think I have the slightest right to think this way. It is simply because they don’t have time. That is all. Here I am, wasting lead, and for most people, it’s a waste of time, but I believe I’ve travelled for a bit without going. Experience something without directly experiencing. Just a few feet to my right is a tired man in his early fifties; a frown plastered on his face, dark shades blocking the modern tragedies of our new generation and with each passing minute he sinks to his soft, leather throne inch by inch. I find this sight very amusing, like watching a cat balancing on an arm of a tree, fighting off a mid-afternoon nap. And I can only imagine what it would be like to be him: A forgotten father with dreams gone astray, time wasted, life thrown away, crawling to nowhere on the large margins of his own existence, spending what’s left sitting on a public sofa and passing out to bitter slumber. If I could just be him for a minute, possess his body like a mind controlling a machine, I’d open my eyes wide like a madman, and fill my lungs with the air as cold as the wind in Antarctica. But in a split second, I caught myself thinking, caught my face smiling, and my eyes staring at him like a goof. When a huge man dressed in all black like a valet driver, with a radio tucked between his belt went near this sleeping cat-fellow and lectured him that the sofa was just for lounging, “You can’t sleep here, sir, I’m sorry.” He said.

He did the work for me, only he did it physically. And after a while the man left, probably decided to go home and watch some terrible news on T.V and dream moments, brilliant possibilities scraped off from his contingent life, which he’ll instantly forget. And I just kept reading, for about 10minutes, and the same huge man in black passed by during his second normal rotation, laughing with the person he’s talking to on the radio about some man named, Padio, and how humiliating it was to fall on his bike while eating a banana. And I wanted to shake him off his sleep as well, and to tell him to stop lying around the margins.

7:01am

after Shane Koyczan


But your kiss, my dear,
is an ignorant virus
that pollutes itself

to every nerve of my body;
violently entering each cell
like a prison guard.
And when you think

that your travelling lips

are pattering
little pebbles of love

on the shore of our marriage,
they leave nothing but
open wounds,
longing to be nursed
by someone else.

--


A response to Shane Koyczan’s “6:59am”


When: May 21, 2011
Where: Home

thoughts #1

human's contemporary perspective of discovering evidences of extra terrestrial beings.

ALIEN CULTURE a lot of parallelisms with human beings.

Only to have the same wonder/curiousity. Slowly secrets are spoken of. And they're wondering if there are other beings like them? Only to find out, They once belonged in space, use the core of the earth as a living ground/ underneath the water/depths of sea. And that one alien creature descends to the earth. And be seen by humans.

shame

He can feel all the blood in his body rising up towards the warm balloon of his face, “this is how shame feels,” he said to himself wearily, “it’s an obvious personal torture. Oh, how do I hide it?!”. The more he saw himself from an observer’s angle, the more he could feel the eyes around him undressing his soul. Even the public yawn that he gave could not conceal the torment this man imprisoned

B and W

A writer goes crazy because his ideal self is an over reflective person who likes story telling. And by writing, he tends to load up the drawers and cabinets of his mind full of stories, but with no one to share it too. He makes up personalities just to cope with life and take our air. But if a social life is maintained, then it's also beautiful. The former is much harmful when it get's intimate with a person because then he becomes possessive; the mind needs it's food.

Oppurtunist Philosophy

Radiohead - Punch up at the Wedding  

Life is all there is, no skepticism, just the realization and acceptance that we only live once and this life is it. In that case, we are attracted to managing our time as best as possible by experiencing numerous of things. But we think quality than quantity. (makes an Oppurtunist). So become creative "being" another person in short quality of time.