To Catch a Falling Star

Those eyes were like a colossal ship, stagnant like water, depth in there I saw lurking like Keats's condemnation of lost holiness. Yet water without odor, water without confinement, water without its sprinkle, water without salt, water without force, still water with a spasmodic embrace. There were two of them, not the eyes as obvious as they are, nor the boats my dear. Two creatures on earth, two creatures in Eden, two creatures in hell and two creatures in heaven. Though human they were, irrevocable were they like jaguars that with blazing eyes crouch for splendid hunting. Hunt, you ask? Oh hunting for love and hunting for admiration. Phantom and Lilly, so are they named, or shall I reveal actuality? Ah! Literature was never about revelation my dear, it was art for art's sake and is food for thoughts' sake.

Lilly was hunted and Phantom was a hunter, the former in a manner a soul is searched to be extracted, and the latter in search for slavery. "Lets play a game." she said, "Either you lose or you let me win." He demanded. "Being a gentleman, my Lord?" was what Lilly uttered but was it an inner cry or an external utterance he couldn't tell. "I am a promise, yet I am a vase. I am a mirror as thick as the dark. I am a sword yet subdued. You must accompany me.", he slayed. She burst into laughter that echoed through the jungle and stung him like the little chips of ice that fell apart from the branches of trees and landed on his reptile skin, "My Lord, I am a woman and you are a sadist, don't be disillusioned by the superficiality of this constitution."

.... (more later)

Loss. Grief. Lesson.

She still remembers the day when he left. The rain poured as if the sky was lamenting their fates too. He had his things packed and ready to be loaded onto the vehicle.

            "I am miserable here. This doesn't feel like home anymore."

he had said, with eyes weary of a lover's agony. She had felt terrible of the very idea of their separation, but she knew how he felt, she was always aware of how he felt. Just as she is now, she was not sure then; if he didn't knew she wouldn't survive a day without him or was he just pretending to be a ruthless bastard. Did he remember what he had said when he was leaving? She did, she had carved those words on her heart and they just never seem to stop torturing her soul.

       "Stay. Stay for another day, just a few hours and a few more minutes." 

How can he forget the way she had begged of him to give her something more to reminisce later, when she suffers in the silence he would leave behind.

     "You have to go you know, it's getting dark out here. Mistress will see us, she'll be upset and angry with me."

he blurted out as he started walking towards the exit.

"Don't go, be someone. What about me?"

She was vexed with her inability to capture a last sketch of her beloved, a last glance of his face, his eyes and his smile, but who was she kidding, she has been as people tell her a reflection of his existence only not on the inside. Those words have molded her feelings towards him. Each day when she recalls those words she hates him even more. She doesn't hate him for doing what he did, she hates him for becoming who he was not. Those words ruined their lives, all she did was ponder on those words while she tried not to fall into the wide gaping hole he left behind. Those words, a bitter memory and an answer to their ambiguities

 "I am a slave; of my mistress, of love."

Edvard Munch Gallery

Of Dragging Days.

There is thing about subtleness, the more you subject yourself to it, the harder it backfires. Days; shorter as they seem and longer as they are, never intermingle with deliriousness. Deliriousness though, moves parallel with their superficial nature. There have been clarifications, elucidations and verifications of men and monsters, youth and age, liars and cheaters, life and death; but they have been limited and restricted to utter seriousness. Maybe the world seems a better place when channeling forceful streams unto the paper. Do we or don't we defy a day that drags like a corpse along a dry pavement? A muddy alley, many times maybe, but do we be grateful for when we're pledged? 

Lisa Greenstein's Art

Of a dragging day if I must, it is more like the sun has ran out of power, more like it doth not prefer rising at an early hour. Ironic would it be if a dragging day, is anything but children playing in the sun and spawning rascals all around wetting their wits. For when a day drags, it seems like the clock hath sharpened its ticking while the lousy sleepers snore deliberately unto its combat. Dear Lord, when a dragging day needed be spent around rascals and bums! With their wit and the cheekiness, delinquency doth come! For when a dragging day consumes whatever hath left of their mischievousness, those wretches I swear crawl back into their holes. Phony aye! Echos the sounds of their snores, "belittle shall we, belittled were we", screams the the transiting day for those whores! For when a day drags pouch it for a rainy day, for when the rain comes; belittled are their souls like that of the forlorn hay. 

Of a dragging day if I must, it is more like snatching breath out of the lungs, sound away from the chords, music from the instruments, droplets out of the ocean and sanity out of maturity. A dragging day starts but so does it end, shall it or shan't it be treated like a disease? For when a disease strikes one is quite unaware, for when it takes the life why label it bigoted or unfair? Thus, of a dragging day, if we look unto it, my Lord are there a gazillion people who work around it? I suffer of a disease similar to a dragging day, loneliness the doctors say, I rather it being labeled as the state of withdrawal. But no matter what the reference, the cause remains the same, I am a patient of a bloody dragging day!