Forgive me if the words I've written are those you don't want to hear, forgive me I did not say them, I could not say them anymore. We were talking about our innocent beginnings and the unexpected turn of events that finally brought us together to where we are right now. Life is indeed a mystery and no matter how things seem to remain as they ought to be, the mind is always restless, seeking deeper meanings and significance not only from experiences but also from the positionalities of the actors themselves. For some reason not brought upon (un)intentionally by anyone, the person will find himself misplaced or at least, realizes that he should move on somewhere else. Perhaps that's the reason why I cannot say them anymore, the things you want to hear - the things you will want to hear. I am at the crossroads at this moment and I seem to be heading to the other direction - where you and I have a different meaning and of different significance to one another. Forgive me for my words remain at best, vague, but surely you know what I'm talking about - you are still speaking the language while I gradually lose the ability to do so. But you must know, I have always done my best to (re)learn it, even if most of the time the words I utter in our own language are becoming foreign to me. I always believed, that just like our spoken language, one has to speak ours regularly, to learn more of it and hence get used to using it. But the language of the heart is of a different composition. But it does not simply build up for regularity and coherent integration, not simply on the cognitive level, rather, it arises from the depths of the soul. And if the soul feels that it should learn from other realms, dimensions or other worlds, then it should move to wherever man believes would bring him to his further becoming. I am at that stage right now. I want to explore the other worlds I have yet to know, and regretfully, I cannot take you with me - at least in the language we used to speak.
A view from a window
From afar,
someone attempts to write
the saddest lines of her day,
perhaps from the failure
of leaving an impression
in the mind of her beloved: possibly,
when he and she met at a certain point
and all he could give was the faint hint
of a smile and a quick hello,
not noticing the taut clinging of the dress on her curves,
the subtle exposure of the gentle slope that concealed
him inside her and way down
the milky surface which caught everyone’s eyes
except for his.
From afar,
someone takes off her dress
and everything, possibly,
that reminds her of failure
for the day and maybe,
the days to come. She lets the cool air
of the fan to play with her hair let down
to tickle her back, her only source
of pleasure as her fingers press
the soft keys to write, perhaps,
her saddest lines for the day.
Simon's selective memory
I do not know him
i. i did not hear his name
iiiclamored by the multitude –
iiiit should be another man
iiithey welcomed merrily
iiion the street with the greenest palms
iiiwaved left to right
iiiby their eager arms
ii. that was the face
iiiiii did not remember
iiiiiof the man to my left
iiiiiwho took bread
iiiiiand a cup of his blood -
iiiiiit must be another man
iiiiiwhose life would be given
iiiiiup for us disciples
iiiiiand mankind
iii. those were not the hands
iiiiithat stretched out
iiiiito catch me on the sea
iiiiiwhen i almost drowned
iiiiibecause of my fear
iiiiiwhen the boisterous winds blew –
iiiiinor was he the one
iiiiiwho came to the docks
iiiiito call forth on his journey
iiiiimaking me his right hand
iiiiiand christening me finally to
iiiiiPeter the Rock
because I have to.
(The cock crows.)