the faux victory of the stars in a losing battle

i. meteors

I have been anticipating the meteor shower tonight. Before specks of sphere-shaped fire make a show out of the sky, I am already thinking of my wishes.

The view bedazzles me, like the time I looked up at the ceiling of Sistine Chapel, at the visionary and consequential depiction of the collision of human and heaven.

I see those two merge. My youth disappears in a split second, faster than how meteors pass through the night sky, more impactful than the murals.

ii. supernovas

These eyes are a stranger to me. That stare digs deep down into my consciousness in a way all other emotions are present except mercy.

Supernovas are a spectacular phenomenon when you are light-years away from it—never the kind of scorching heat and blinding light. But tonight I discover how it feels like to be right exactly where the explosion happens—something of helpless cries and soulless stares at the heavens. There is only numbness.

iii. galaxies

I wish I could live up to a billion years like the heavenly bodies but that is coveting the right that only belongs to them. Maybe the gods want me by their side.

In my mind, I have traveled the universe and have seen it all. Galaxies are never alone. Its constituents will never leave orbiting around a forceful center unless the continuum goes back to its untouched fabric form.

I have people around me. Some are Earths and some are Neptunes; but galaxies are flat. And maybe that is why they only see the dimension they have situated themselves in.

This is how I probably have lived for so long now. How much time has passed since I have witnessed rays of light bouncing around me and have seen the eyes of Adam in a painting out of my reach?

iv. stars

Someone once told me we are made up of an obscure amount of stars, possibilities, and wonders.

It feels like more than a billion years already.

Fireworks—look at the sky when you hear a booming sound that is not too hurtful to the ears and see a faint-colored, flickering rainbow hovering the concrete—I have become one of them.

— (daisy #3) c // 180516

dear helen, the weather is gloomy today (excerpt)

When all else have shut the window
and closed the door, show
what cyclones you hold inside you;
go bold and row
your oars against the current.
This island will never leave—
talk to me when your daylight has lost
its sunshine; tell me
the stories of your rains and thunders; say
all the lies you’ve heard today…
here, in comfort and grace, must you stay.

— c // 180510

the day i first saw the moon drenched in orange

The moon rests ever so peacefully on the bed of soft clouds, yet this time, it is more powerful. It is admirable—the way an orange border dispersed horizontally is bedding the intangible sphere of makeshift fire, caressingly dividing what is blue and yellow. It flashes in a fierce hue of orange right before the orbs, incinerating one’s consciousness to an ocean of bleary, poetic thoughts, following them even in the most undisclosed parts of the deep. Yet something hides beneath the blazing serenity that deceives the eyes of the spectators.

— c // 160427

Some Days, I Just Like to Breathe

On some days, I like to sit on the floor of our porch just reading a book, or maybe lay in my bed and blankly stare at the ceiling; some days I want to work on something and be relentless; some days I want to soak myself under the rain and feel the mist of the ground. Days and mood differ. I could color rainbows if I wanted to, but that was before.

I can’t stay still on my own will now, can’t run outside just because concrete walls suffocate me. I’m told to color a drawing with only two contrasting colors, which I don’t even get to choose. Reality is a luxurious prison. It’s an illusion of freedom where my choices boil down to what is being told by the norm set upon my mindset.

On some days, I just like to breathe the fresh, morning breeze. There are times when I long for a morning tea that doesn’t seem too rushed. Sometimes, I just want pastels and the smell of vanilla. For a moment, I just want to make this cage mine and let the grip around my neck loosen for a while.

— c // 180114

This was My Hometown

At 2 in the afternoon, the ground smelled like it had just taken a bath from the mercurial rain, just damp enough. Walking along the pavement I was too familiar with already, with different homes casting shadows I could easily distinguish, I still saw umbrellas hovering people’s faces, making them more mysterious than ever. This street was busy; everyone was chasing time, making me feel left out, yet that didn’t bother me.

Late nights and early midnights were the times I hear unending clinks of glasses containing brew, earsplitting music blasting through the speakers, drunken howls, and chatters of men that were all cacophonies to my ear. I hated noise. Sometimes words of hatred and frustration would blare suddenly, without any warning, at an unpredictable hour of the day.

But even with those, there were those younger years when I had been scurrying between those narrow, perpendicular streets in between houses, so carefree and void of silent enormities and iniquities. There were those days of heavy rain when our house was filled with others’ sturdy footsteps dashing through our doors; even with their half-submerged calves, they were ready to lift anything with great will. There were those unexpected lending of hands, sharing of graces, and words of good intention. Even with the monotony of the days, stories varied with the amount of people who had something to narrate.

This was my hometown. And for years, I had adapted to the adverse and unfavorable character of this place, too much to my relief that I felt alienated so easily at some other places.

This marred and somewhat substandard, little ground homed me, along with the people close to me. It introduced me to those resentful whispers, despondent tears, delightful smiles, lighthearted laughter, and all other things that were sad and merry.

— c // 170608