Moonbeam

In a moonbeam we talk about the little things of our lives. The music, the lights and the zombies around me. Such pitiful admiration. The sudden surge of energy and the night that's creeping in. And yet, my mind sways away from this hole in the ground to a memory that could have been, for now I am here and not there. 

What are we doing, sitting here, in a little grove under the moonbeam? 

Another Week

The weekend draws near. My physical strength dwindles close to collapse, my mental stability is almost jeopardized. Early mornings, late nights, little sleep. This is the life of a student. My life, and the lament of a thousand voices that I create behind me, in my mind, so as to emphasize my point and feel confident about it, even though there's no point in whining. 

This is going to be a long tiresome semester. I know I will meet my deadlines ahead of time, and I will work hard and waste no time. At least that's what the ideal me would do, but I'm not ideal. Far from that, I am a sloth, a creeping maggot on a silky cushion of warmth.  Wasting time is easy, being productive and efficient is not. My time is characterized by events; periods of long wasteful nonsense, and stressed-out, efficient working periods, that produce results that could have been achieved leisurely and way better earlier on. 

I guess this has always been me. I never really studied much, if at all, prior to exams in the past, and I grew in an environment littered with distractions. However, I do believe that these distractions made me who I am today, for I have learnt so much from my mistakes, which I still do. Learning is a life long process, and I am still building myself up while eroding my useless traits. Well, let's say there is no useless trait, for even these have their share in the formation of a character. 

What I tend to do now is stop writing, because even though I have only spent few minutes putting my thoughts into words, I am still creating my own distractions to avoid being efficient and avoid completing tasks which should have higher priorities. Priorities. What a word full of meaning, isn't it?

I need to work on my priorities. 

Negative Emotions

This is for all those who do not have anyone to share words with. For all those that are neglected, for those that are tucked somewhere in their own world, being chocked by reality. 

It is not rare to find people who seek refuge in their own solitude. I do so very often, to escape problems, to hide from fear. I have learnt to suppress tears. I'm not ashamed to admit that I used to cry a lot, but I got used to it and was constantly told to stop acting so childishly and I changed. I built a wall around me, and locked myself and my emotions in it. I blocked the only sink of negative emotions, which ended up flooding me. 

I found some comfort in music. The different melodies and sounds I experience reduce emotional discomfort or elevate others; like regrets and sadness to a tipping point where they can escape. 

People can be both the source and the ease of negative emotions. Laughter is a good remedy, even in harsh times. Best of all however, is a person to talk to, and to share anything that bothers you, because sharing burdens makes them appear less daunting. This act called friendship is blatantly mistreated, and very few friendships serve their true purposes any more. 

So writing has become another form of release. Words are the physical form of thoughts, and even though they do not accurately depict whatever churns somewhere inside this brain of mine, they can ease the stress on my system. Through reading, I hope that other people can be encouraged to find their own way at sharing such emotions, rather then suppressing them, because suppression is not a solution but avoidance. 

The Life of an Old Fisherman

The life of an old fisherman, on the edge of a cliff, a sunset curtain and a soft breeze.
His cast, an elegant swing of the pole perfected with time, the float that lends on the dancing waves, a cork as old as his wrinkled face.

The melody of the birds in cliff-side nests, a lizard scurries under a rock and a cricket hops on the dried blades of grass. In the distance, a village, and closed windows.

A fish on a hook, and the reeling of the prize of happiness and satisfaction. And the walk back home, the rubble walls and the stone and the carob tree.

Who Am I?

I do not understand myself. I try to make sense of all the dreams I dream of and of all those things that worry me, but I become more confused than reassured with every thought I conjure. I feel like I'm going crazy and that I am losing control over my mind.

I change with every word that is told me, and I act differently with every person I get to know. I become more like them the longer I am in their presence, and a bit of what was formerly me corrodes with every passing moment. People define who I am, the way I think, the way I act.

However, I do not think anyone really knows who I truly am, since I don't really know that myself. The truth is I am not a static character. I am a changing figure, like a black hole sucking ideas from those around it, and in the process, changing itself. So to know who I am, I must look at the eyes of those who I know, for they are part of who I am and who I shall become.

It's constraining to say whether this idea of myself is right or wrong. I would rather think that I am a concious being with an identity than the carrier of thoughts of those around me, but I do not see the negative side of this philosophy. Maybe that's the problem in all of this, that I have not yet came to grasp the truth about myself. I still have to find what makes me happy, and this should not be based in people around me. I have come to depend too much on other individuals, and  less on myself, and that has to change.

For I need to build myself with that deep intricate feeling of being me, rather than to satisfy what others would like me to be alike.

The Sentinel

"Wake up, wake up..."

 The waves came crashing on the cliffside. On their back, howling winds followed, hunters chasing a fluid beast that engulfed everything that dared to oppose it, slithering and squeezing into the coast. The beast made way and found the only weakness through the rocks and ventured into the cove. Their it bellowed and rose, arms open, unwelcomed in this quiet refuge. It sat upon the innermost sands, licked them and retreated. However, the beast dared not touch the feet of the man standing watch on the sand bed. His eyes commanded it not to, or so it seemed, his hair flowing elegantly, caressed by the breeze that found its way in here. 

 This cove, carved by the sea inside the cliffs, was not a place accessible by land. It was embedded so deep inside the rock that not even green plants grew in the lack of sunlight. The walls jailed it from all sides, a protruding stony balcony shadowed the grinded earth that formed the sand underneath. Yet, in such a desolate place, a person stood sentinel to the waves that periodically made their way inside.

His hair was rust brown, shoulder height at rest, and his eyes burned with a silver flame glazed with a hint of celestial blue. They were deep and focused, keys to a thousand hidden thoughts lurking inside. His feet were bare, his toes printed were he stood, and on his wrist he wore a bracelet with seven rings dangling on golden strings from it. A wave came rushing in and touched his feet, he recoiled and moved back. 

"Wake up..."

It is time, he thought. With a sleight of hand he grabbed a ring from his bracelet and wore it. Everything turned to silver dust. Across the room there was a boy, very young and innocent, playing with his cowboy hat. An elderly man giggled at the sight of his grandson, coughing with shortage of breath. On the other side of the room was a bartender polishing his glasses, more precious to him than diamonds. This was an inn, as old as the elderly man and as weak as his boy, built from wood imported across the desert from the swamp. But what significance does it has? The silver eyes veered from the scene. 

The waves came crushing back in. The Sentinel removed the ring from his finger, and sat down on the sand. He knew not what to make of what he just saw. Lately, they had started to become stranger. The setting, the characters, the sensations he felt in these dreams he ventured into. They all seemed so alien nowadays. He recalled how different his work was a few aeons ago. Time itself was no matter for the Sentinel, but nowadays something different was concerning him. His relevance and his position in all of this. What exactly was his job? He tried to think, to come up with a conclusion, but he could not understand. He could not even remember how he ended up in the cove, why he dreamt, and to an extent, who he was.

 "Wake up, wake up..."

He picked a different ring this time, one adorned with veins of ebon running through a river of gold. He admired its beauty. As he slid it into his aging index, all around turned dark, the sound of the waves ceased, and a crushing sound of caving rocks engulfed him. 

The Words of Rainer Maria Rilke

These are the words of Rainer Maria Rilke, words that I found inspiring, and could not do without preserving them in a post on this blog. 

“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. 

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and miss...

Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.”