At a cafe

Outside the double pane glass the busy street plays out as a forgotten ballet. We all are the dancers stepping onto the pliable pavement. The music played is the confined cacophony of our stray thoughts. From behind this window, I undertake small moments of rest and nurishmet before my toes tap along the varied players aside from me. Darting eyes with blind looks signal mounting shifts in formation as the flickers of overhead lights guide the metal chariots to motion. One last bite from my warm dish and the fizz from my carbonated drink sets the tone to more a relaxed feeling. Much like a jazz man I float between sung words and memories. Back to the dance I go as my break is over.

Compliation of Rants

Middle of something:
In these days I am learning to shut down my emotions and just look at everything as if it is new. Maybe it will or i know it will make me stranger to the people I converse with but it is a refreshing change for me to be relatively emotionless. No I am not going to flip out by just by killing. Rather I am not actively seeking new ways to perceive life just with a self imposed state of mind. On an ending note...with the regards of me wearing the all Dickies attire in black or blue, I am a fan or wearing really plain stuff that is a solid color.

Never Me:
I rarely ever dream of anything. My eyes close and I plunge in temporary comfort whenever I can. Lately in the short hours before I would wake I have dreamed dreams in abundance. Each dream I am there behind a set of eyes and skin complete foreign to me. Random flashes of color and images feign importance to me as I live under another guise. My words, language are strange and varied. I have felt death, love, passion, pain, sorrow, anger and joy in so many nights. These people to whom I have never met, the person I become when I am under and the places I have been, still resonate within my thoughts. The attachment is brief to periods of slumber, but those episodes have become lifetimes lost.
There are days recently in which I lose a hold of my own identity for moments at a time. I peer into the denizens of the city, my mind becomes blank to embrace the individuals who moves among us anonymously. In thought I see as they do, think as they are and live as they can. It ends the same with me gasping for a small amount of breath back in my own skin. In trains, I travel thinking hard about the dreams I have led. I am faced at a standstill at my own reflection at home as I am a stranger onto myself, my own skin and eyes could be of someone else and i am nothing more than a visitor.

Looking up:
I am amazed on how little people look up anymore. We live these routine lives without the natural awareness we are instilled with. Concerned about the next bill, worry or problem we deny ourselves the need of just to let it all wander. The tension of just trying to make it by is so tight diamonds should form on our every steps. I look up in the past couple of days for no more of reason but to ponder and wonder beyond the city lights and people would gather to watch as well. Sadly, they all look just to know if there is something important in the sky. In small amusement, i am asked of what I am looking at, I simply say the sky. When asked why, I say with ease, its there. The crowds disperse writing me off to being a bit off and troll again to never look up again.
I look up just for myself and maybe for other who have lost the way back from inspiration. I am inside now writing this on a computer, in a room with no windows or access to natural air. yet, here I still write and ponder about the next time I gaze upon the sky, what gifts it can bring.

From soul to medium:
At times, my hands work freely on their own scribbling about images, people, lives, feelings and everything in between. I cannot think or know what they can produce until they start going with their own agenda, much like when I hear that unheard tune and have to either hum alongside it or sing under my breath lyrics which it would demand of me. I always wonder where they would come from, those fevered obsessesive musings which would arouse my to react in the ways I do. It always happens suddenly like they are possessed in an otherworldly fashion. I feel the pain in my nerves crippling my bones as they move maniacally to do the deed. Until it stop and all the blood stops moving within me, I don't think it will ever stop happening. While I even write this, I shake in the knowing something will follow this up on paper if not digitally. Maybe, just maybe I create what the soul wants to say...

At what cost:
Days have come and past by since I last talked to you
I am restless, disturbed from just missing you
I’ve laid awake trying to find a way to move on
It’s hard fter all this time and gets to me on days like these
I carried my feelings in a rusty tin box and you still had the key
you have invaded me, my mind is infested of you, a persistent disease
in darkness, I sit in silent speech asking you in fevered pleads
what would I have to do?
I have given up tomorrow for you one before
I exposed myself, my spirit, my soul and all
it wasn’t enough? did you want more?
I miss you sometimes like if we parted moments ago
I can still taste you
feel you
want you
in the end I ask myself, at what cost?

Just Me:
Every morning, I wake up not knowing who I am anymore. I refuse to look at reflections. The days go by me as if they were to be forgotten. Get myself out to the world with a promise of just pen an paper. Scribblings, incomplete thoughts and arias all written in the order to be remembered. Sometimes familiar faces cause me to seek small words, short moments of bliss. I go on listening to the unheard symphonies, moments and dreams playing behind my sight. My skewered vision come from unanswered questions based on desire. Those desires once were had then lost like anything wanted. The rules of time have stopped applying to me for a while. The only thing I know of coming the nights and fleeting days. Deeply in my own thoughts, my steps have changed into faint echoes. The echoes are the fading sparks of memories once cherish and held close inside my chest. They all die out like others staining the notion of what I once was. I started to notice in just a day, I could only really see with closed eyes. Bypassing impulse from traditional sight I see the secrets left out in the open. I know of my own buried under my fears. I goon knowing I am alone with others, in moments, from birth and unto death. All which makes me is here flowed on plastic to digital pixels from these very hands narrates to all; it is just me.

Crashing Down:
All the air is forced from my lungs as the strident air pierces my gut with incomphrensible spears. The emptiness grows further until I am just a shell of who I am. In short time, this shell collapses from the uncertainty and confusion of what has just happened. In shattered pieces, I witness the culmination of things come to an early end. The shards of who I am reform into the same empty shell. My shell is filled with an overflowing frustration which can extend beyond this life. I have come to destroy all that I have created in a short amount of time.
I wonder as it all subsides again, can i find my way back? I will fall, have fallen so many times. When I go the world, not yours, but my own comes down with me. To lay down, I breathe in defeat. To stand, I struggle with an unknown victory. I sit up knowing truly at any point that everything I am or done will come crashing down.

The end of things

There are times in which I have to get something on my mind out there. I don't care how strange anyone can find it; if you read this bear it, if you hate it forget. Days go by like anyone else. Yet, I have come to the realization of the terror my own thoughts bring me. The many times which I try to force a moment, a word a conversation in those brief silences in between living. So many images, words, music, dreams and ideas run rampant in me. They come crashing, crushing me under its bearing pressures. I have drown one too many times and forgotten the taste of the air before I fell.One thought most of all comes up often without consideration or virtue; mortality. In those short moments, I grew darker as my eyes go unfocused into the sight of what it is to come. Dread becomes this wishful thought as I feel worried about being unfettered by any of the bonds I have made in life. In my own head, I am enveloped in the tapestries of despair and torment. It is the truth of anyone to think like this, but I fear it happens to me daily. Yet, I do not fear the process of death in its entirety rather the sense of not existing for a purpose, the many small moments of comfort and the fleeting notions of having a thought kills me in so many ways. I honestly have gone on to think of being this tattered piece of cloth waiting to come undone to the point of not having an origin.

Either way I know when the worlds ends, it ends when we die. When you or I is not able to be or know of things in this world as the time comes, it is the end of things and all into unknown night.


"The great and glorious masterpiece of man is how to live with a purpose"---
---Montaigne----

A couple of years, just yesterday

I will never forget that day. It was one of the worst days of my life. I didn't know it then that I would be lifted on sight. Drenched, miserable as the clouds above me, I fell into the murky waters on a city street. I wanted to lie there as I looked down at the harsh cold pavement. I wished for the the water to wash me from this turbulent existence. Yet in this pummeling downpour, I heard a voice. It was your voice, one i have never heard. This sound hollowed me and the very air inside rushed for an escape. I heard you again and dare to raise my dark eyes. I could not think, speak or believe who you were. Everything which you are put me in sudden shock. My heart felt like bursting though bone just to be closer. I rose silently in an feverid disbelief of reality. Stranger it is, I ached as if you were this piece piece of me I have lost. I still remember her skin, the wonders of her parted hair, those warming eyes and the voice, the voice. Yester, I fell again into murky waters and in those moments hoped to hear you once again.

100% Perfect Girl

I found this and ever since I had a copy on me to read whenever I need to recently to lift my mood, its from a Japanese author named

Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Unforgiveable

You did it so many times with different faces. So many ways I was a fool for not seeing it before. You would nest in the chambers that beat beneath my chest knowing, I am a fool. Each time you have left with a piece until you were satisfied on my patchwork failure. I have barely aged yet I felt close to death fom your betrayal. All these performances, masks of content were made from each time you struck me. Each piece was a part of who I was that is missed. I could never have it back to who I was and now whats left is all that I am. This is what is left within those chambers, a rusted pile of resentment and malice held by pain and fear. In regret i let it happen under the guise of some feeling. Shamefully, I know you will come again, but you have always failed to take this small thing from my hallowed chambers. You won't see it, feel it or know or it until it is too late. It is the hope one day you can rest in my chambers and build me up again.

Til the End

(slow drums, violins, bass and solo acoustic guitar)

Forever is our dream
yet everything ends sometime
I"ll go with deep regret
to never say to you

(hums)

Til it ends
I'll be waiting
cause theres nothing else for me

In my hands I held it all
it's all gone to dust
left alone to face the darkness ahead
let go your hand don't follow me
it comes for me like it'll come for you
I'll go deep in regret
to never say to you

(hums)

Til it ends
I'll be waiting
cause theres nothing else for me
right here
Til it ends
I'll be waiting
cause theres nothing else for me

(hums)

I waitied too long
the gray has tangled me
I regret saying nothing to you
I try to touch you one last time
I'll go deep in regret
never being with you

Til it ends
I'll be waiting
cause theres nothing else for me
Til it ends
I'll be waiting
cause theres nothing else for me...only you

(softly as the music is fading)

Only you

Act

These are the days I wake up empty
walk the streets aimlessly without purpose
oblivious through the the hollowness I feel
I exist for no other reason of just being
My steps are forgettable
my words unremarkable
in this sense I am the walking ghost
I am there and not there

In time this feeling will fade to a point
yet at each time I get a little bit closer to it
what it is I don't know
so when I am back you will see me if you care
wearing another one of my fabricated masks of being

Phantoms

This persistent image of her still resonates before my eyes. I can still taste her lips after I wake, still feel her cheek next to mine. Echoes of her smile remind me of previous nights. So close, so real to touch her. The sinews of dried tears hide the frustration I harbor. In this rain, I stood with my eyes closed waiting for you to come in this waking life. In sorrow, the water which fell on my face became my cries of true wanting. The clouds parted as the light shone once more on this farce of a relationship.Yet, deep somewhere inside the confines of my mind holds a glimmer of hope. I know you may not exist or have died, but I take the illusion. You remain my phantom, waiting for me to join you.

Well, this is the new home for my writing....

I got tired using myspace and just decided to have my own blog account on this site to display and post what is in my head without the hassle. Here I will have more of a free flowing reign of putting up what i have written with less distractions.

Resignation

In the small corner of my despair, I sit in front of a craven oak monstrosity captivating my existence. The grooves along the surface reflect the countless moments of frustrations I had to endure. They also etch the contorted images of my desire and despair. The smell of old varnish hides the aromas of intellectual failures which have afforded this captivity. Just small fragments of creativity come to tease the edges of my reason as I yearn to hold a single coherent thought. I succumb to the laughter of turmoil and the silence of stagnation. In solitary resignation, I know it, the morbid truth which I struggle to accept for so long. I have lost the ability to create my machinations of wonder. I am left with nothing more than a table clean from the lack of manifestation.