Tidbits 208517

Poem written by a man and read by a woman.

“I want to devour you”

I want to devour

your mind

I want to devour

your soul

and everything

in between

I want your words

to become the blood

pumping from my heart

through my vessels

circulating in my body

and keeping me alive.

 

I want to devour

your poetic thoughts

your shameless romantic gestures

your fearless disease-inducing

speech

your mind-numbing sentences

your eyes

your eyes

the delicate look

in your eyes…

even the drinks

you gulp down your throat

the food you eat

the people you like

or dislike

I want to devour them

all

I want to devour

everything in you

outside of you

and around you

 

And when these lines

draw a full circle

and go back to the start

I will reach out to you

again

like I once did before

only this time

it will not go

unnoticed

and my spirit

and my heart

will live through

these words.

 

Tidbits 2072917

Are you becoming what you always hated?

It was her again.

She had crept into my thoughts, crept into my soul, brushed the curtains aside and opened the window.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

She was scared, terrified of solitude and being alone. Yet she was all by herself inside me.

There was only silence to entertain her – well, silence and the still periodic beating of my heart.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

Still, I fear for her. I hear intermittent pounding coming from my chest. Was it her? Was it my still heart, or was it something else?

Whatever it was, I knew she couldn’t handle it alone. She needed help. But I needed help as well. Usually when faced with uncertainties like this, I resorted to some external force like alcohol or a good symphony to get me through.

But this time I knew it wouldn’t suffice. The normal tactics I usually deployed were useless.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

There’s that banging again. It’s getting louder and louder now. I can tell because it resembles the noise my neighbor makes when she chases her kid around the house to beat him.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

There’s gunfire now. Gunfire in my soul. Massive artillery and heavy weaponry lined up on the front lines. Soldiers and army men geared up for the fight of their lives.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

I can’t see her anymore. She’s lost somewhere inside me, and dear god I hope she doesn’t stray too far away along the dark path. Even I don’t know what’s hidden inside – deep, deep inside – yet she somehow insists on getting in.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

I remember grave-robbers. I remember the heavy sound of metal and gold and steel and iron and diamond being dragged through hot sand, well-wrapped and neatly adjusted in their bags. They are now indistinguishable and resemble ordinary grocery bags.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

It’s late, it’s always late in my mind. I’m always the last one at the party and the first to leave. I’m always the last one to catch a whiff of life, a smell of the cool northern breeze or a taste of the hot road as the car tires screech and the vehicle speeds up against the coast.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

I am a man of science. I am a man of people. I am a man of words.

No, maybe I am just a man. Or maybe I just am.

Are you becoming what you always hated?

She appears again. She rises to the surface of my soul and her face appears again. It is showing traits of sadness and anxiety; it is showing traits of depression.

Yet I remember that face, and even through darkness it still shines and I can see it is more beautiful than ever.

She looks intact, unharmed by the many devils contained within me that tried to slay her or persuade her to join them. Yet she is back, untainted and unscratched.

I want to talk to her. I want to ask her what happened. I want to know how deeply she has gone, what point she has reached and what she saw.

I want to know what she found.

But she is still, she is frail and still. Her eyes are the only things moving, and her lips flash a delicate yet weak smile.

The gunfire stops. I wait for her.

The loud noises stop. Still I wait for her.

The heavy pounding stops. I want to talk to her.

But she beats me to it and parts her lips, and with eyes fixated at me she only utters a single sentence that carries an eerie familiarity and silences all the combined sounds of the universe:

Are you becoming what you always hated?

Tidbits 20031976

My cat doesn’t care about death

My cat doesn’t care about death

or the dying or the dead

or the people that have left

My cat doesn’t care about death

 

My cat doesn’t care about outlaws

or vigilantes

or poets or romantics or criminals

or singers or rappers or artists

My cat doesn’t care about death

 

My cat doesn’t care about

the living living in hell

burning their fingers with ash-ridden smokes

going up their nostrils and down their throats

or the cancer patients lying awake on their death beds

My cat doesn’t care about death

 

My cat doesn’t care about the heartbroken

or the hurt

or the people lighting candles for the deceased

and gripping onto their last pictures

while grappling with the question of existence and fate

My cat doesn’t care about death

 

And I watch her play and frolic in the sun

outside on my porch

as I sit and weep the souls of the lost

the good ones are always the first to go

the good ones are always the first to go

 

And the people

both close and strangers

the people ask me

why are the good ones always the first

to go

and I stare at them with no answer

and only this to say:

the good ones always go first

that’s why

I’m still here

 

But my cat’s still here as well

and I’d like to imagine

that in another life

possibly a fair life

it was a human being too

and one of the good ones

maybe even one of the best this race’s ever produced

so why is it still here?

 

It doesn’t

really matter

because I’m here

yearning the souls of the lost and dear

and my cat

well

my cat doesn’t care about death.

 

Dedicated to the soul of Chester Bennington (1976-2017).

Rest in peace.

 

 

Tidbits 4778

It only takes a moment to turn on the radio

and get caught up with the latest music playing in town

It only takes a moment

to pick up an instrument after a while

and start playing again

***

‘You’re pure’, he said, staring at her in the one moment when her eyes didn’t meet his.

‘What’s that?’

‘You’re pure’, he repeated.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m saying you’re not like other people. You’re different. You’re kind in your words and in your smile and in your touch. I know because that’s the way you treat me. That’s the way you are with me. And I’m sure you’re the same way with everyone else.’

‘And who said I can’t play favorites? Who said I can’t be that way with just you?’

‘Because you’re pure.’

‘You keep using that word’, she said, almost frustrated. ‘But what do you mean by it?’

‘I mean people are easy. They drink and they laugh and they spend money and they forget. They are doused by a few compliments or silly words and they immediately come around. You’re not like that. I can never treat you like I treat normal people.’

There was a hint of blush on either side of her face. No, wait, those were just her rosy cheeks.

‘And I can never treat you the same way I treat other people,’ she confessed. ‘Why do I feel you’re always shunning me away? Why can’t you let me express my love and tenderness to you? Why do you push my feelings away?’

‘I’ve never been good at this love game. I’ve never fully understood the rules and I was never really good at playing it.’

She held his hand. He pulled away from her.

‘Listen,’ he started again. ‘There is a crier in me, a crier that cries day and night. The crier yearns for something or someone, I don’t really know. Perhaps he yearns for some long-lost notion like true love or some other form of absurdity I don’t really understand. But he’s part of me now – he inhabits me – and he makes sure I am always standing on the shore, away from the deep end, where I am safe.’

Tears. How dull and insignificant they were. But hers were unlike anyone else’s – they were pure and sincere and expressive in every meaning of the word.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Listen. Listen closely to what I’m about to tell you. Listen.

If I were to imagine the perfect girl, the smartest and wittiest and funniest and most beautiful character ever, she wouldn’t come even close to you. That’s how I see you. And that’s how I always will.’

He paused.

‘I envy the man who ends up with you. I envy every guy out there who thinks he has a real shot with you. I envy those who’ll actually get theirs, those you’ll acknowledge and those you’ll ride with and go dancing with and have quiet dinners with. I envy them all, and I wish to be every one of them.’

He searched his jeans pockets. Tears were still filling her eyes like a gushing waterfall pouring into a lake.

‘Why can’t it be you?’ she asked. ‘Why can’t you be that guy?’ she screamed.

‘Honey, I told you, I’m not one to play the love game. I’m just a man who recognizes something exceptional when he sees it.’

He took out a note from his pocket and slid it into her hand. He then closed her palm and kissed her on the cheek.

The man and the crier both walked away. One of them way carrying the other inside of him, but it was hard to tell which one. She looked at the familiar silhouette slowly distance itself from her, the shade slowly splitting and forming two figures instead of one. Finally, they both departed under the sun.

The girl stood there, almost motionless, her eyes weary from the tears they released. She opened the note in her hand – delicately, ever so softly – and read the words written in ink:

You are Pure.

Tidbits 365

They were burning books again.

This time though, it wasn’t the people. No, they deemed it too worthless a task to take up their time. They didn’t want to bother with it. But my guess is they were afraid of touching the books.

They were afraid of touching the books, of getting sucked back into knowledge, of having their hopes and ambitions raised again by a few soft and delicate lines.

They were afraid of their power. So they preferred to keep their distance and delegate the job to other beings.

Now robots were burning the books. Intelligent cans of metal were running around the city spreading havoc, chasing librarians out of their libraries and robbing children of their bedtime stories.

Yes, now robots were burning the books. Highly intelligent beings programmed to execute orders perfectly by their masters. Their masters who had given up on one of life’s most prominent sources of knowledge.

We warn and we write and we read and we compose music but we get no answer. There is no one at the other end sticking their ears up close to the wall, holding onto a matchstick to light our little flame. Instead, the people are running, the people are contagious, the people are spreading their stupidity.

The people watch empires burning to cinders without understanding why. They watch the flames rise and forget they were the ones who lit them. They watch the verses break and shatter and applaud to the sound of their cracks.

My cat stares at me from its green cage. I stare back at its face and it speaks to me: it asks me why humans repeatedly make the same mistakes and insist on covering them up. It asks me about the void in their eyes, the pit in their hearts, the graveyard in their souls.

I can only nod but can’t answer. I am unable to answer my own cat.

Far away, the thick smoke rises and touches the skies. They’re at it again, I think to myself.

They were burning books again. The people, the robots and every other life-form that has traded the light for darkness.

40-159-3

It was in my brokenness that I found her, and once I had become whole again I lost her.

Wasn’t true love supposed to be one of the good things in people? One of the things that actually completed them?

Sometimes it takes a single thing to derail your life. And sometimes it takes a single thing to complete it.

Maybe it’s a person. Maybe it’s a talent. Maybe it’s a thought or some other catalyst for a better behavior.

Here I was studying the difference between being a writer and being an author. I took it upon myself to discover the subtlety and unravel it:

An author is only titled such when he releases some form of work, I said when asked.

A writer is in a state of perpetual and continual writing. Some may even argue the writer is trapped in his own craft.

So I guess that’s what I was: trapped. Trapped in a continuous state of lost inspiration, trapped in a continuous state of agonizing over my work and words. Were they ever going to come down on paper? Will they ever be good enough? Was I fit for the profile of a writer? Was I drunk enough to write? Will any of this ever be published?

All these things, screaming out of me. Yelling and shouting and bellowing from my guts.

No this is not a rant, nor is it a journal entry. I design my own thoughts and follow them through wherever they might lead me.

Sometimes it’s all throughout the page. Sometimes they stop at a paragraph. Sometimes it’s more than that and they circulate into my body and reach my nervous system.

I look into the dark and only see one thing: my white cat standing there. It’s growling and purring and eating its food and playing with its toys. It must be good to be a cat, I thought.

Sometimes.

But not always. Sometimes it’s good to feel, sometimes it’s good to have that cold feeling coming down your spine again. And what about that person I opened my lines with? Long gone.

A phase. Just like other things. Just like finishing school or dropping out of college or pursuing a noble aspiration or having lunch. Phases. Phases that define parts of our lives and parts of our personality. We are the sum of our environment, of our exposure to others and their thoughts. We are the way we treat our pets, our relatives, and even the strangers living close to us.

Hell, we are how we treat ourselves. Take a good look in the mirror and ask yourself: are you being fair to you? Are you being fair to your dreams? Are you being fair to the person you want to be? If you don’t have an answer, well then I guess you’re not looking out for yourself as much as you should. And you should, because the damn governments certainly aren’t. Other people will tell you they will but will eventually let go to. It’s time you start going after what you want and the way you want it done. There, there it is, at the bottom of the page, the purpose of this whole monologue. And it only took a couple of pages to come out this time.

I told you I follow my words. They might be distracting at times and sometimes even confusing, but I log them just the same. Because in rare times, in rare occasions, they might just be useful.

Tidbits 53

I am a robot.

I have found a way to fuse my intelligence into the hide of a metallic object to achieve immortality.

I no longer fear cancer, heart failure or any other foreseeable disease that harms the human body. I am made entirely out of metallic plates and tin and rust.

What about my human heart? Well, I gave that up long ago. A long time, even before my recent transformation. I was operating solely with my brain, by relying on cynicism and wit and intelligence. Now I just had to move those things – all merged in one organ – to a much safer shell.

But I cannot forget my origins or even discredit them. After all, I was once human too, and I guess looking back at it some part of me (even though tiny) will always remain human.

So I write. I write manuscripts to preserve my humanity. I write to feel the impact of the words on thin sheets of paper. If you stare from a far enough distance, it may seem like what I’m doing is closer to calligraphy – you might think I’m just another operable machine copying words in fancy lines.

But the truth is this mind is still capable of working on its own. It has resisted brute-force programming and still commands itself. I mention this so that you may be able to understand that the words I write are very much my own.

But it’s important to note one thing: the dystopian post-era world writers have warned about and described in great details is very much upon us. Time is fleeting – that we all know. But books are fleeting as well. Writing – as a whole – is fleeting. We are entering a world where many are selling their souls for technology. Selling their souls to become like me.

Except they will never become perfect replicas of me. Because these same people are also selling their brains and their hearts for the big bucks. Which means the entire world population will boil up to nothing more than a pile of controllable rubble; machinery that thinks it is trained to think for itself whereas it has already lost all signs of perception and emotion.

And while the echoes of the brave and faithful intellects are long lost, there is simply no way to preserve what we already have and worked so long to obtain. The libraries, the books, the words, the thoughts and interpretations behind them, all discarded and dropped for much shinier things.

I think of myself now, as I write this, fearing for this near future, fearing for myself and my life as the only thing that will outlast time and be able to record the image of a world where humans have ceased to exist.

Yes, I will be there, when humans go extinct. I will be there when the resources of the earth will no longer be enough to cater their needs. I will be there when illiterate beings start crawling like mindless zombies and hunting down each other to survive.

I will be there.

I will be the only one – thing – there, writing it all down, reading it to myself. Again, and again. And again.

The only thing that keeps me going is not food or oxygen or water. It is being able to write. It is possessing this sacred ability my humanity has instilled in me. It is knowing that ability cannot be stripped away from me at any time. It is knowing it cannot be lost or forgotten or buried for good.

No, this is not another plea to the human race. The human race is long gone. It has abandoned the teachings of the great minds, it is being sucked into televised screens and social media and food and beverage and silly entertainment.

This is an oath to myself, an oath that I will keep on producing fantastic manuscripts such as this and preserve them and read them and re-read them until my circuitry is used and overused and abused.

And when the world finally comes to a stop-still, when the sun goes out and darkness starts to seep into our soils and pollute our streets, I will be there to witness it and record it all.

And when my mechanical hand no longer touches the thin sheets, when the words stop showing on paper, then – and only then – will you or anyone that is still able to watch it all unfold be certain that the entire universe as we know it has come crumbling down.