Archive for August, 2013

Alternate Greeting

August 22, 2013

C.,

It’s either the angel, the hero, or the redeemer—that’s how I wanted to imprint myself in your story, but that would be a fib of unnecessary machismo because right before I asked you out on that movie date eight years ago, I already had a hunch you were a strong and independent girl, and I was right.

In fact, I’ve always been the chair with a broken leg at the center of this well-lit room we’ve kept for ourselves, the illumination  at all times revealing a crippled image of myself. And you were there. You were always there, the omnipresent crutch to a shaky balancing act that threatened to tip toward lunacy and commune with the floor eventually as a loose end.

Today is a day of celebration. I celebrate you like I do the Beatles and the music I’ve grown up listening to. Or my pretense, which I announce to this world as poetry. Or this heart I shamelessly wear on a threadbare sleeve. Look! It has a patch with your name on it.

Torrential Essential

August 3, 2013

You know those people who associate rain with sadness? I’m one of them. But it’s not necessarily that kind of sadness that dampens the spirit that I connect with the downpour. At times, it’s one that just makes you look back and stare at reminiscence straight in the face. Which isn’t always a bad thing. It’s that silent moment when all you hear is the thudding of raindrops against the roof, the crumbling of clouds to the sound of thunder, the beating of a time-traveling heart, nothing more. That silent moment you claim as yours. To reflect and rethink about things past, present, and future.

In this moment of self-immersion, I typically find myself ruminating upon things which, to me, are a little stranger and more random than the usual musings one can have during a doused weather. For example, thinking about Claire Danes, whom I’ve forever frozen in my memory as Juliet. I’d imagine her to be that fine-looking lady with cherub wings, walking towards Leonardo DiCaprio, now walking towards me, now touching my face with her soft pale hand, and everything, pristine and porcelain, is, at the same time, phantom-like. And I’d start wondering: what could she be doing at this very moment she’s riding the train of my thoughts? Is it raining in her side of the world? Is “Romeo + Juliet” playing on someone else’s laptop? How about “Kissing You,” how many have listened to the movie’s OST today? How many of us are caught in the same contemplations?

Usually, at times like this, I end up writing a poem or a song, which I will not finish. There will be aching from an imaginary pain whose roots I will never trace. However, no matter how weird or disconnected it sounds, I will feel a kind of epiphany as I submit to these meanderings.

When it rains, I try to seek connections among experiences. No matter how vague, how volatile. No matter how real or unreal; how small or significant. It’s a healthy way of waiting for the sun to come out.

It’s a brand new day.