Sunday, October 26, 2008

His Heart Hypothesizes

His heart is a space not worthy of many things,
but it wants to take in a little piece of her.


The words disappeared, the emotions vanished,
what good is a memory?


If she comes back to him, she must come back to him with a new her,
even if it takes a lifetime to know her, though he briefly knew her.


A sweet can only be as sweet
if it’s ingredient consists of many sweet things.


Trust – he got one.
One trust, better than none.
No one is better than trust.


He hates that song,
because that song (even if its about love),
was written in the wrong key.


Can she tell him, if she reads this,
that she is re-reading this just so she can read him?


Or worst, rid of him?


Just for once, they agreed on one thing, which is this: there are two things which they cannot agree on: agreeing on one thing that never agrees with the other, and vice versa.


Someday, if they try too hard, the truth will be able to lie.


He called her not to know that she's there,
because he knew she was already there, but somewhere else.


He wants her to promise him with no promises.


And once she stepped into the bright, her shadows will haunt him,
and once she's gone, her shadows will fill the void, like the light.

There is nothing more still than the stillness of their voices not knowing what is still to be known.

They broke their long sentences,
Shortened their speeches,
Minced words,

Can she tell him if this is the way to her way?


No, no, no,
can she show him the way to her way?


They need to pry open their cans of secrets and reveal their true selves from the dark corners, because he believes that this game is better played by the fools among kings.


He don’t know what’s good anymore.
Anymore, they pretended to know. More and more.

He can be there,
but what’s not there already?

The limitations of his space will show her how much he can take in, give in, breathe in and lose out.

Because love is a gamble, what are their chances?


She looked him in his eyes as he gazed into hers,
and all that he saw was his self, alone.
He questioned reciprocation.


Because life is a gamble, what is the price they have to pay?


And they need to know if they can do this again,
and if they can do this again, how do they know if its real?


No one can say for sure but someone who is sure will finally say,
either him or her, that this is not something they can be sure of.


Focus, confuse, refuse, ruse, fuse, fuss, fast, farce.


No words but the words of the ending that matters.


They have the rights to remain in romance,
for how long he can never foresee, as her heart reckons answers.


Because his ending is her beginning a long time ago; a long time before the beginning that ends right at the beginning of an ending, which ends with a fresh new beginning for the same, old, ending.

Where these were written, many of his old thoughts left his mind, and new thoughts entered. His heart never stops hypothesizing.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Deconstructing Eid

What was supposed to be yesterday's post is merely today's past. I am reclining, declining and inclining all at one go. If ever there's a memory bank large enough to fit the seven seas, I will skim through and name each forgotten past after T.S. Eliot's practical cats. And each song, a prime number. And each face, a type. Each love, a country. I will then sleep and dream about all things burgundy, until you reverted and decided that my portrait is only suited to be printed on t-shirts and mugs of various patterns. Then we can say goodnight and goodluck with open arms and heavy hearts. But not before recounting my version of Eid-ul Fitr this year in a nonlinear fashion. The facts were these: