Young one, you are young once.
In that time you have the chance to build the foundation of YOU, your youth, which you can keep and carry and share outwardly with others who feel true to you. You have a window in which you can create your boundaries, decide what role playfulness plays in your heart, discover your art, challenge your questions and choose to challenge them forevermore. You can choose to never stop these patterns.
But if your youth is robbed from you through trauma, tragedy, lack of nurturing from the adults around you, then you might not make it out of childhood still a child in your heart. You might freeze over and become a cynic, a critic, a pessimist, depressed – is this the way the world really is? Yes, I’m afraid so.
Magic is real but endangered.
Many are ready to rob it when your clutch begins to loosen up. The first time you break down and let go of everything special to you, you lose a piece of your spirit.
You can get it back, it’s just rough to do so.
The MRT is timeless. Hour-less. Indifferent to AM and PM. Those who ride the subway enter a world of fluorescence and recycled air, supplemented by ambivalent digital female voices cooing in three different languages. A gray and white speckled floor winks repeatedly at me in a two-dimensional imitation of natural stone and gravel; an earthly accent to this dead compartment. The first sign of life outside the metro is the warmth that pervades everything just outside the sliding doors. The refrigerator cabin spits passengers out like the hot breath of a sickly cough and welcomes new travelers into its sterile and chilly womb.
The sunset is a vague phenomenon to observe:
In the beginning of daylight’s final breath, the sky is enveloped by an indistinct white haze. Nothing is certain, and all distinction of shape and sight is lost. All that remains through the brilliant, bright glow are the distant hums and wails of the ships on the lazy sea, floating away in lethargy on a seemingly aimless path, which makes me think of a proverb by Krishnamurti:
truth is a pathless land.
The diminishing visibility of these tired ships continues on a steady descent towards nothingness along the horizon as I am left to gaze and ponder, the direct and yet subtle sunlight painting my cheeks and nose with the same golden fairy dust that glistens across the surface of the scintillating sea. I am reminded of a sky filled with stars that burn to no avail amidst an artificially illuminated Earth, with no apparent purpose other than to exist.
Oh, to be free and in love with this life!
If the Earth is my lover, then the sun is my father-in-law, and I love him just as deeply as I do every one of his creations upon which he unconditionally shines and bestows his warmth with not even the concept of judgment existing to taint his golden mind. I may die alone and without a human counterpart to express the workings of my mind and the feelings of my heart to, but as long as I have loved this wonderful Earth, and let this Earth love me, I will die in a state of content and without a single regret. And suddenly, in wondrous synchronicity with this beautiful revelation, the sun drifts into place behind the only clouded portion of the otherwise empty sky and creates a view so striking that my romantic ruminations are confirmed. He sprinkles a fine red dust over the strip of sea that lies beneath his cloud as my heart embraces the meaning of this moment. Everything is clear for a brief interlude, and then the sun drops below the huddled droplets of clouds and, once again, the horizon is submerged in that luminescent whiteness. The bellow of a barge is expelled from the formless ambiguity of the haze; a seemingly indifferent sunset to those who don’t allow themselves to be truly loved – not by their friends, families or partners, but by life. That affirmation of love is lost in a dream that we can reach whenever we want – if that is what we choose to do.
**Collage by Sir Clintavius**
Don’t look down on me for my youth.
Don’t be threatened by my maturity.
An old man slowly walking backwards
makes more sense to me
than three young women marching forth in heels.
I am who I am, that is me.
Nothing more or less than I am meant to be.
Why do the simplest of concepts
become the most complicated?
Because those who have the power had them
and they fed these misconstrued bits of bread
to the people who most needed to be fed,
and thus they were deceived and led to believe
that life was to be found somewhere outside of their heads.
And rather than loving and playing and laughing
and dancing and laying in the sun outside,
they wake before dawn while their loved ones are sleeping.
And while riding the bus they hold back from weeping,
and show up to work exactly on time
to wear an obedient smile instead.
I peer inside where your secrets lie;
your brain is no mystery to me.
What others are perplexed by
I understand perfectly.
The subtle thoughts and revelations
that swim throughout your mind
need neither preface nor explanation;
for they are the same as mine.
Can I come over and play with you?
Sweeping the stars away as we please
to adjust our eyes to the dark, moonless view
of the sky from our home in the trees.
Let’s go, with no towels except for the sun
to the creek where the water is clean.
We’ll swim infinitely where there is no one
and the air is as fresh as a dream.