#musings of a troubled soul
it’s difficult knowing that you grew up too fast. That the consequential, ordinary moments like running barefoot in grass or the wind grazing your make-shift cape is just something you’d only read about through books. a bright, young thing lost in a world of failed human relationships. It sometimes feel like the sun might never shine on you again. But it will and when it does, the child in us is there to welcome it, burning to dream
ever look at a piece of art and think of how a simple picture, painting, music, or book transcend time. For it to live through generations of generations, era after era, and yet, here it stays, alive and beating. as it captured the hearts of many before, now it beguiles us with the same intensity, even bringing us to tears, knowing that behind each stroke, note, and word is another person’s soul laid bare. gazing in the depths of the Art, we reconcile with the ghost of its creator, drifting and immortal. in a simple glimpse, we became a part of the undying
I am drunk with sleep. I know nothing but the lull of sweet slumber in my mind. I want to be truly awake, feel the pleasure of romance, of poetry idealized in the image of two hands intertwined. The silhouette of shadows coming as one. When will i experience the spark, catch fire and burn with small confessions everyday, as another candle ignites and eases itself in my wandering heart
oh the inherent homoeroticism of blood-soaked bodies clinging to one another, the red honey dripping in excess, forming a path of ruin and murder. eyes seeking salvation, the other clouded with carnal affection. the head is thrown back, revealing the neck of smooth, Vestal skin, the knife in their hand’s dig deeper– harder. there exists no room for a fair hero and muse. in the consummation of the crime, lay the crimson limbs of a villain and their tortured lover
“I was emboldened and strengthened by the parade of misery passing before my eyes. I was experiencing the same excitement that a revolution causes. In the fire these miserable ones had witnessed the total destruction of every evidence that they existed as human beings. Before their eyes they had seen human relationships, loves and hatreds, reason, property, all go up in flame. And at that time it had not been the flames against which they fought, but against human relationships, against loves and hatreds, against reason, against property.”
– excerpt from Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima
in the dead of the night, often i think of missed opportunities. fantasies that could have been moments turned memories. a split second of doubt that erased a friendship, lost touch with a darling one, now a stranger and nothing more. if only i danced with fire, talks beneath the setting sun, silent walks with the words of the dead, our omission to companionship, and camaraderie, and love so severe, would appear apparent in sunken eyes. if only i leapt without thinking, for once, i could’ve known the secrets of the universe and be with a person that finally, only understood me.
justice is blind, more often than not. many animals thrive in the halls of law, they are not savages, yet slaughter the innocent for speaking truth. they are not evil incarnate, yet play with human life as if mere pawns in a game. they are not gods, but people in business suits.
Sonder. Its the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as you do. We may feel as if we alone precedes this world. We strive to be the main character. When in fact, we all have our differences. Life for me may feel like I’m living in a Donna Tartt novel. On the other hand, the eclectic old man I often see in my local bookstore would say that he is a lone ranger fighting off wicked men from the Wild West. The said old man is just one of the many figures I distinctly remember in my book-hunting escapades. These strangers— those I often see in bookstores made me realize that I am many things in a person’s life. A Hero. Villain. or simply a spectator.
you know what’s more intimate than a kiss? giving someone a personal copy of your favorite book. in all its tattered glory or near-perfect condition. ink highlights a memorable line— of a sentence that made your cry. or where countless post-its decorate the pages. in pinks, blues or yellows. others leave questions, or answers within hardbound copies, soft ones most of the time. it’d be even more surprising if someone left lipstick stains
Wong Kar Wai.
His films provides a source of an aesthetically pleasing and insightful psychological study of the human psyche. His unconvetional approach with everything sparked the nostalgia one can harbor. He shows reality in pretty lenses but writes words too simple that it makes you ache. Unrequited. The sort of thing you’d feel from his films. There is a sense of longing for a childhood, for a home, or even a person you want to share your demons with. It’s pretty unconvetional. Like with Life. The characters in his film has this realness and slight child-like quality to them. You begin to see human beings— or ourselves— projected as irrational, bitter, or just lonely fools who yearn for company.
—excerpt from a description of my Six Word Stories
