Finding (out)

Just in a heartbeat it passes right through me electrifyingly—when my eyes meet the unexpected.

An aura of comfort that was incomprehensible to be felt or be seen in the past from all the wrong point of views can, once and for all, be felt or be seen at the very moment.

Same thing can be heard translucently transcending from those chuckles with little to no known pretence.

Only if I can hit that genuine note to break the barrier on the other side—to be heard, be felt, or be seen!

Nothing really there is like this mischievous Dennis-the-Menace smile that would make my day last through a million light years.

Page after page I am turning this imaginary flip book of mine and the illusive shifts in those caring watchful eyes begin to stir up and dance under the starry night sky.

Oh you, my little muse! Please sing that all-time-favorite song of yours just for me to be heard, be felt, or be seen.

While waiting for that waning moon to at last dissolve into the darkest of night, those little spur-of-the-moment surprises bestowed in you give me an extra burst of continuity.

Eternally you are engrained in me.

Running around this abandoned old factory, I remember you as you are.

Such as you are, you are my little muse, my little imaginary flip book, my continuity, my favorite song, ....... my soulmate !

Self Portrait

Whenever I look at the mirror— I see the portrait of a boy, (whose name) rooted from a pine country and whose heart made out of pure wanderlust, staring back at me.

I see a boy who came from not that very far away corner of the world: that “Mowgli” boy, but just this once, who is roaming at will in this constricted jungle channeling his mind from tranquil “wilderness” suiting up to feel and breathe the fumey midtown traffic.

Before the ever ticking clock strikes again, I see that same boy giving in to those shadows of a midnight madness and resurfacing reluctantly in light of the luminous lantern lit up in the horizon with no known prejudice.

Before the mighty red bridge from a distance about to be enveloped by the measly ocean fog, he who once was a boy slowly turns into a man spreading his imperceptible wings ready to soar up against the wind leveling the knightly eagle.

As the ticking clock strikes another hour, yet an hour more, the man hums those vague verses from another time and another song.

I can see him looking over his shoulders as if it was the final glance to the place where he may never return.

He cannot see what I see in him...

What I think I see in him is nothing less perpetual than a mirror image where an image-self shouts out its twisting foreign tongue echoing— “mise en abyme”.... “mise en abyme” .... “mise en abyme”.

May he see what I see in him penetrating through the many faces of winters and springs.

Through the many faces of summers and falls.

The many faces of his portraits.

The many...

my December

It all started out that evening. It was one of those days like this— holidays and birthdays right around the corner where every kid gets excited just by hearing bells jingling through that bashful winter wind with the exhilarating thoughts of gifts possibly matching one from the never-ending wishlist.

It felt chilly even on a brightly lit sunny day getting excited about putting on his best manner for the upcoming dinner reserved at seven simply because it was not just any dinner. It was the ultimate once in a lifetime sort of dinner for a child at that time!

How much does a small town boy know about exquisite dinners? Definitely not so much about foie gras, caviars, or truffles! Nor about wealthy choices of covetingly desirable a la carte and manly hors d’oeuvres.

It was a single simple turkey dinner for the first time in this one and only established hotel in town back in the days.

I still remember that warmth and that insatiable texture of creamy mushroom soup having been carefully scooped out of the soup bowl not to make a single sound nor drop on the table cloth.

What surrounded the dining table were other handful of tables filled with what seemed at the time to be considered as rare “foreigners” in my eyes where I now am abundantly in the midst of.

So in short, the dinner was good and brief. But only had I realized—it all started out that very evening. What a long way I have come and how that humble holiday dinner gave me this larger-than-life sort of feeling over the course of close to twenty years!

This is a wary reminder of how much I have grown and how much I have come to know. And yet today's knowledge and may be shy tinge of wisdom are mere infants of countless tomorrows.

One other simple fact I couldn't help but notice is that no matter how embarassingly unsubstantial the past events are in the future, what I feel today is haphazardly true for today. And that is what matters in the end.

Salud to life and happy holidays!

Sleepless Heart

As I walk down this street over and over again after so many of the third times, I feel youthful again.

An urban toppings sprinkled on this rich, creamy and aspiringly old-school American town excites me just enough with its sensational architecture and its modern twists in the surroundings wherever I set my feet upon-- whenever I take a split-second glance at the personas and characters of beings strolling down that same street over and over again after so many of the third times.

It really reminds me of great things in the past and the great past at this instant being overlooked and judged from the future tomorrow.

It simply makes me youthful again; and it really does.

I take a deep city breath in this coldest 70-degree humid sauna-like evening breeze coming from the not-too-far Atlantic; I appreciate god for what he has done or in some cases for what he hasn't.

I just want to be like everyone and no one else at the same time of which, I most certainly agree, comes from my avant-garde (if I may) state of mind.

I want to be just like him in my casual plaid shirt and my favorite carrot jeans with a tinge of 5 almost 6 o'clock shadow and a pair of matching shoes I once bought leaning against the wall of that music school thinking of those understated and unborn talents.

I want to be just like her in her unfinished trails of mascara lines revealing the inner peace and beauty of not knowing what is going to happen while gracefully extending her slender neck before this all-mighty life chopping board.

I want to be just like it-- so minutely miniscule yet so fundamental to our everyday personas and characters of beings rushing up and down that same old street over and over again after so many of the third times.

And it feels so much larger than life, so out of this world, and yet so... insignificant?

I am at loss of words if only I knew hundred more words. I am so sucked into this serene enchantment, so tied down and so much so that I am somewhat afraid I might break loose and be able to roam out of here freely.

............ inspire me as I inspire my savage "civilized" heart.

............ pull me out of this kaleidoscopically symmetrical mess.

Sleepless nights, great cities, empty hearts...

To Sir, with Love (Reevaluation after a Decade)

A decade ago, on a fine spring morning in my sunny little hometown known as “the big mountain”, I was first introduced to that garage as my new classroom. As I recall the very sight of that little garage, every sweet memory of it comes pouring down as a sequence in a colorful motion picture flickering through the back of my brain.

Meeting my teacher,whom all of us addressed as “sir”, for the first time naturally gave me an excitement and joy before plunging into the world of the unknown. I was a fifteen year old clean slate back then. That same day marked a significant turning point from the seemingly endless years of sufferings, as much oppressed and freedom-deprived as one could ever imagine to be, being a high school student to a more self-reliant man of character who can think for himself.

Most importantly, “sir” was the one. The one who broadened my view of the inextricably haywire world, the one who gave me a kind of distinctiveness in the crowd, the one who taught me to be feisty but respectful and confident but humble. He is the one—the one who somehow managed to make me fall in love with the language that I cherish the most.

Yet the respected and highly spoken of sir’s classroom was far from being grand and glamorous. It was a mere run-down garage filled with what seems to be a century old dining table together with an old table clock on top of it and wobbly benches on the sides large enough to barely accommodate five students on each side.

Despite the physical condition, what I received from sir’s run-down garage was the utter truth, the unspoken honesty, the castle of knowledge, the invaluable and immeasurable personal asset for life.

To this day, every time I come across shabby old garages or well-worn dining tables, I smile. I smile wholeheartedly as I remember the tiny classroom from the other corner of the world— I smile as I remember the tiny classroom that I once was in and the tiny classroom that radiates rays of hopes and dreams—situating on top of that big beloved mountain that I once passionately climbed...

Living that Moment Giving my Soul

I've read somewhere about life that more than half of it is comprised of waiting- for something to happen or someone to come and hold your hands. Well then I would add in the unknown context of whether if that long-waited something is going to happen for real or if that someone would really show up in your life and hold your hands. Now that might take up your whole life to get it figured out. Either way hope sets in as disappointments start to disappear.

This instant life is more like colored dots and pixels trying to make sense out of things. The more you try to look into your life, the fainter it gets. It is always best to keep it at a certain distance and from the angle the right light hits, you'll be able to get the whole picture of it. Like nobody has the same perspective about rainbows, you have so many different labels people have given you in life. Some you love and some... you would love to be.

Life is also about who you want to be in so many ways- and just be with more importantly as days go by. It presents choices yet restrains options to choose from. It is fairly bias and unjustly fair at the same time. Life is inextricably haywire yet a little complications that you always have to be thankful for.

Well what is it really? Uncertainties? Survival of the fittest? One thing I am certain of at this moment is I always wondered where I will be when I am older. I happen to know the answer now without divine intervention.

"I am still here." "And that's a very good thing!"

Put on your shoes; and I will wear that shirt. Let's live the moment.

Late Night Figure Of Speech

It is 2:54 am and I still can't sleep. I spend too much time in wasting it away. In fact it was a close-call I almost did tonight but in the end I didn't. I am grateful to myself for this and I really am. After 314 months, I am finally getting dismantled into billions and billions of tiny molecules and reassembled back into me. It definitely is not awful as it sounds because I am in this subtle position where I have no single drop of energy left to propel this sweetness of life and I am telling you the truth, it is not at all painful having been crushed into pieces... to be better.

The moment has finally arrived and even way before it has, I already received an affirmation in me just like the good herald's lullaby transporting me into this dreamy reverie. So serene and calm. At that very moment, it is like nothing could really stop me from facing life head-on. Smiles blooming everywhere- laughters churning in with warm breeze. Everyday is the first day of spring, snow fall, summer and autumn. Once again at that very moment, successes and failures do not matter in one's accepting heart. Condescension withers and falls from this barren emptiness.

The clock is ticking away still as I move on- as the world moves on. I have come back to my senses. The first thing I see is "hope". Please give me another chance and let me try to love us even more.