Beauty

129.

Why do people speak in the midst of a breaking?

Waiting for the boom of fireworks, the roar of a thunderclap

By the bedside of possible death, a wave of congratulations

 

Maybe this is it:

That humans have a softness for honesty

To see truth leave one’s trembling lips

To speak the unsayable because that makes it so incredible

 

Yet we fear consequence:

The rejection, the disgust, the ardent whispers turned into despicable shouting

 

We forget that consequence can also have a wellspring of affection:

The leaning of heads, an iron-grip hug, the removing of a dried leaf from one’s hair

 

We are animated dust kicking up a storm

Leaving sunshine and rain wherever we go

Footprints in the sand eventually swallowed by the mighty ocean

In spite of it all we aspire to be more than just this

 

We climb mountains, we search for new horizons

Finding for a place or someone reminding us to simply be

A map lost, and no place to return to

 

Yet one day, there will be a time when you will watch the sunrise reflected in their quiet eyes

Sleepy yawns gently tugging at the consciousness before a dangerous falling in

And when they ask why you have kept your eyes on them this is what you will say:

 

Once upon a time when no one knew

You defied the odds and became the neglected miracle in the dark

In a world filled with incalculable possibilities we are both here

I thank my God a thousand times for this incomparable moment

 

Blush they will, or turn away

Yet the sly sneak peek will show your shadow melting into theirs

This confession coming clear in spite of your speaking in the midst of a seashore breaking

 

Pick up a seashell, more than one

Build small emblems of devotion with driftwood and hard stones

Let them know, let them know, that even as you are playfully carving names in the ground

That their diminutive smile is a compass, mirthful laughter its tracks

A sign that there might be a home to go to

 

There is so much in a glance

Even as it lies wide open or a furtive sneak

There is so much more

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108.

For this long I’ve been alive, strength sufficient to indent these thoughts in a space semi-tangible. What else can I say but thank you, despite receiving servings both beautiful and ugly, brutally honest and honeyed double.

Moments are all I am, and my memory, no matter how decidedly powerful, cannot serve as an anchor in life’s unpredictable tides. Yet I am aware of the compass from above who leads me on even into unchartered waters. The crown of stars I await in my waking dreams glisten charmingly.

This I know in the voyage: to try and try, to write and write, to love and love even more.

81.

People are afraid of being alone. Visit the city, that’s how one will see.

The sole ones rush quickly, earphones in, phone on the ear, the downcast face of shame. In a world so connected, solitude is a sin and loneliness is the immoral conclusion perceived.

Or must it be? For being alone happens to be my affection.

This is my secret: that in a space colossal and imbued with human energy, I stand still to watch it all. Instead of running and dashing about, my feet grow roots. I wish to recognise the life of this immense atmosphere.

On the park bench, on the windy pedestrian bridge, these places find my soul slow to a halt. I appear in their memory a flitting image, but to me they stay a little longer. These are lives by the abundant and they are stories I will never unravel. These moments can make me weep.

If I could, I would be in want to touch as many lives as possible. There’s incredible potential in one, how much more shall there be in a group? Crowds overwhelm me, but in my staring I am hopelessly enchanted. I cannot comprehend this enormity despite my best efforts.

I am happily alone in the city, but if you are willing — would you watch the city with me?

48.

I met a butterfly crusher once.

There by the beaten garden path, when my inquisitive eyes prompted him to say hey. He looked mighty curious, with a faded jacket and pale shoes. While my mother told me to avoid strangers, I stayed anyway. Sat next to him on the wooden bench.

Do you want to see a magic trick? is what he asked back then in an odd voice.

Child that I was, an evident yes.

He covered his right hand on top of the left palm before taking it away. The magic occurred, in which a turquoise butterfly landed neatly on his left palm, as though on command. (Later in my years, I found out that it was sucrose.)

It gently flapped its wings with a rhythmic heartbeat before he crumpled his fist.

Why did you do that? I remembered yelling. It was so beautiful!

Shrug of the shoulders, a cold look in my direction. Look, kid, he mused, the beautiful are foolish. They are fragile and insignificant, imaginative whims of someone who has nothing better to do. He dusted his hands and left me.

Powdered butterfly wings mourned itself at my feet.

Child that I was, I should have said no.