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Archive for the ‘Reflections’ Category

People who commit suicide never know that the morning after somehow looks better and bearable. They never give morning a chance.

I hope I will always give morning a chance. Every one of them.

A promise made after an unkind night. A promise that needs to be recalled and never be forgotten.

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Beyond.

It’s beyond love. It’s an all-consuming adoration that never ceases. Heeding every word, seeking every approval. Relentlessly.

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You Are.

I’ve been just floating through life this past year, like a lost kite. Like Captain Jack Sparrow’s compass—supposedly tells the direction of something you really really want, but instead the hand aimlessly turns round and round. No stable ground to step on, just hanging on to nothing but a wisp of cloud.

Half a breath. Half a life.

.

.

.

You used to be my center. And now I am so off-balanced. I used to set my heart, my mind, my soul on you wherever I go. And now I lose all direction.

You’re the compass I always set my bearing to.

You’re my North, my mecca, my cross to bear.

You’re my religion.

You’re the only one I believe in.

When all else fails, you’re the one  rock I cling to.

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saying_goodbye1

fare thee well my bright star 
i watched your taillights blaze into nothingness 
but you were long gone before i ever got to you 
before you blazed past this address 

and now i think of having loved and having lost 
but never know what it’s like to never love 
who can say what’s better and my heart’s become the cost 
a mere token of a brighter jewel sent from above

fare thee well my bright star 
the vanity of youth the color of your eyes 
and maybe if i’d fanned the blazing fire of your day-to-day 
or if i’d been older i’d been wise

too thick the heat of those long summer evenings 
for a cool evening i began to yearn 
but you could only feed upon the things which feed a fire 
waiting to see if i would burn

fare thee well my bright star 
it was a brief brilliant miracle dive 
that which i looked up to and i clung to for dear life 
had to burn itself up just to make itself alive

and i caught you then in your moment of glory 
your last dramatic scene against a night sky stage 
with a memory so clear that it’s as if you’re still before me 
my once in a lifetime star of an age

so fare thee well my bright star 
last night the tongues of fire circled me around 
and this strange season of pain will come to pass 
when the healing hands of autumn cool me down

 

Fare Thee Well by Indigo Girls.

Two years on. Just singing.

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Paradoxes

It’s funny when I think of life’s lessons that I’ve learned sometimes come in paradoxes. There’s no this or that. Only this and that, and everything in between.

Like when I questioned myself what is my purpose in life, I found how tiny I am in this universe—nothing but a speck—and somehow, on the contrary, I realized how unique I am, how intricate I was built to be different from any other, how everything was already written even before I was born. That doesn’t really answer the one most baffling question human race ever encounter, but somehow it gives me an assurance that I am not without purpose.

About a week after my father passed away, I was sitting alone in a cafe, trying to read a book, when suddenly I was overwhelmed by so much emotions. I was struck at how small and insignificant everything is. And yet, how important it is to cherish the ones you love. Family is always the one you can count on. When all else fail, you can always return home.

And a year after, when we were faced with the possibility of losing our childhood home, I found myself staring at how fleeting everything is—nothing is permanent, even something you thought was rock solid.

…you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans, and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flights.
…you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much, so you plant your own garden instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And yet somehow, it’s not such a bad idea putting an effort to build something, to invest in something. Starting a relationship. Building it, maintaining it. In the course of human history, they must have gotten something right, haven’t they?

Well, as frightening as it may be, it doesn’t look so bad at all.

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After a while, you learn the subtle difference

between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

and you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

and company doesn’t mean security,

and you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

and presents aren’t promises,

and you begin to accept your defeats

with your head up and your eyes open,

with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,

and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden

and decorate your own soul,

instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure,

that you really are strong

and you really do have worth.

And you learn

and learn…

With every goodbye, you learn.

 

Veronica A. Shoffstall

 

 

 

 

Feels like I’m losing you all over again, Bapak.

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Love is.

Love, for whatever reason, is inexplicable. Generations of men, from kings to plebeians, from poets to peasants, had tried to define what love is, and encountered only confusions, and the fact that love can only be sensed—like a very basic instinct—not defined and confined in words of psychology, philosophy, or math rules.

Ezra Pound, one of those poets, did not try to do that. But he found love, or courage—in the sense that it comes from love—, or whatever term he chose, instilled in the life of his mistress, Olga Rudge. I have read and love The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt. Beside his talents that Berendt had poured into the book, he also had captured the love story between the poet and his mistress of 50 years, and devoted a chapter, "The Last Canto", for them.

Olgaezra

Ezra had been imprisoned and put away in an asylum for criminally insane, and yet Olga stood by him and encouraged others writers to mount a petition for his release. After twelve years he was released, lived with his wife and children, but in 1962, "depressed and ill, Pound chose to put himself in Olga’s hands". And so they had lived until the day he died in The Hidden Nest, Olga’s little house in Dorsoduro, Venezia. Olga outlived him by 24 years, in which she had become so forgetful that Ezra’s papers finally ended up in Yale. She continued to stay in Venezia, and then finally passed away at the age of 101 in their daughter’s house.

Ezra’s love for his beloved Olga was evident in his request to include a verse at the end of his epic work, The Cantos.

That her acts

Olga’s acts

of beauty

be remembered.

Her name was Courage

& is written Olga

Kings and plebians, poets and peasants. If that wasn’t love, then what is?

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