For the sake of the day (no minute wasted)

Here is a poem I wrote some 366 days ago. 

9:47, she’s giggling as she sits by the table

At last, this day will not be wasted

9:48, she stares at those forcely enamored eyes

He is counting his number ten in his list

9:49, they were stepping on each other’s feet

Trying to give their make-out song a groove

Like drunk bees,

Zooming in and out the circle of lights

In search for honeys

As 9:54 ticks, I envy the pretense

The next three minutes they are drinking cognac

A French toast to a no-French affair

My girl intoxicated of the poison

Turned to roses within the minute

9:59 her vision blurs, his vision sterns

At the twenty-second hour, they were gone

His mind scribbled the invisible ten again

At a handsome square, where the red stars twinkle

The dead night whispers to life

Hearts beat, hearts flat-line

Like they were climbing up and down

Some extreme beautiful feelings

In the passing of the quick moments

My eyes darken with newfound hate

Sweat beads, and at the peak of 10:07

Freedom roars like a sated lion

Eyes thinning yet for meat again

The night rolled, I roll with the waves of my dreams

They roll as they were in a dream-like state

The night rolled over again

Them, praying it not to end

I, praying for the day to knock now

For when the hands of the night reached the middle

This madness ends

Mine and their madness

This day is a year away

Breathe In, Breathe Out with Death and Paranoia and All Their Friends

The title sixty-five-percently came from a Coldplay album.  Yes, man, that’s calculated, even interpolated.

There’s a time interval in breathing: between exhaling and inhaling. In between those acts, which everyone would not expect or believe, we die.  In that millionth of a second, after you exhale, you lose your life and get it back up again at the time you taste the sweet scent of air.  Like a phoenix that rises from the ashes, we have a second to live life better after death and after a quick second we die and then back again.  That is to say you have to make every second of your life sounder. 

A revelation came to me last night, before I called my earthly-strewn eyes to sleeping.  All of us die.  We never know when it will come to sneer, or smile, at us.  All I know was that it’s a painful thing to see and to experience. 

As a precocious child, I have always wished to die first before someone else’s in the family will.  That was my way to escape the feeling of death.  I’ve seen a lot of people leave around me.  Close people that both deserved, in a positive way, to die and not, people in the boob tube and people in the random world.  Death is inevitable like paying taxes, although, slyly, we can reduce the possibility of the happening of the latter.  So it will happen, a little the way a holdup man will come.  It may happen in our sleep, in our way home or in our own friggin’ little way.

But, as a revelation, the dead might not escape the feeling of death in his dying.  I believe that the dead’s soul doesn’t live that quickly from the world.  I don’t believe that the feeling of feeling alive in the dead man’s soul flushes out of him like stool in the toilet the instant he dies.  In contrast, the dead soul’s discovering that he’s dead is the most uneasy feeling he will ever feel in the world.  There is no way back.  The world crumbles as if the world hasn’t yet crumbled.  Death in death.

I have a chat with one of the person that I found available one time when I was late from work; I need to let go of the exhaustion by trying to talk to someone.  I am not the kind of a person who talks about the way my day happened.  I am not the type to start a conversation with people I don’t care a damn about with.  I am not saying I don’t care a bit about this person. It is just that there are some things that happened along the way, and some things that cannot be brought back, or at least, yet. 

He talked about his death when he was about twelve, and sex in his life was thriving.  He died at twelve and rose back to the cruelty of life some thirty minutes later.  He said he felt like dreaming.  He was in a place where all things around him were white and swirling.  He was gliding.  I said holy cow wow to this: gliding!  Like Peter Pan or something.  Or like some ghostly creatures that scared us to sleep when we were younger. 

But he was in this white place he swore he has never been.  He remembered he was moving to a direction, towards a destination, without a care in the other side of the world where her mother was flourishing in tears and nearly dying too.  There was a pinprick point far away that broke the vastness of white around him.  But for some reason, he couldn’t reach it.  Gliding, flying like comet now, he was getting no way nearer until he broke back to life.  His knuckles, from grey and dead, turned to rosy pink.  There was a tumultuous guffawing and praising after that.

He came back to life.

Coming back to life.

Sigh.

Coming back.

Going on.

I feel like dying.  I hate the thought of finally being erased from the memories of every people that once loved me, even from my own memoirs.  I hate the thought letting go of something without doing anything. 

But I feel the whole world is crashing in on me.  I feel death and all his friends creeping nearer towards the mat on my doorstep, swimming through the sewerage towards the faucet from where I drink, pigeons that sit on my windowsills, pecking on my glass, shattering it, pieces flying and slitting my throat.  I guess the paranoia is attributed to that single piece of word I messaged from long time ago.  I guess that is what a longing and desperate heart would do when it comes to the verge of something that it couldn’t help to hold anymore.  Saying a single word would ease everything up, and now I am entangled with this feeling of death and paranoia as I breathe in and breathe out.

Heard something, it has nothing to do with this entry.