A Small Price To Pay.

For the first time, in a long time to come, the path in front of her came into focus.
The past became a vague blemish of gray.
And the air was forever tranquil.


She tried to dress in black, but found herself attracted to those brighter shades - to those yellows and reds.

A vibrant outside.


Her mind deduced she was better off.
Her eyes magnified indifference.
Her body felt forever light.
Her conscience numbed, retreating inwards.

Her inner self breathed its last words: “Rest in peace”, and then spoke no more.

A still inside.


They clashed - stillness and vibrancy.

She smiled and frowned throughout it all. It was all the same.



They clashed again – vibrancy and stillness.

She chuckled and wept throughout it all. It was all the same.


A small price to pay, she thought.

****

“What’s wrong?” a familiar voice asked.
“My heart died,” she replied.
“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.” the voice said.
“I’m not. ‘tis not loss, but a great gain,” she claimed.
“I see. Might I inquire as to how it died?” the voice implored.
She shrugged, “the autopsy report declared its cause of death to be ‘over freezing’.”

****

Yes, her heart died.
And in its place lay a black veil in silence, recollecting memories of a colorful inside.

Yet, her outside is forever vibrant.
Her body forever light.
And the air forever tranquil.

A small price to pay indeed.

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The Boxer Effect.

Why hello fellow earthlings that are way too cool to be on earth.

About time for that new planet to appear and whisk us all away with its magical forces, eh?


Anyway.


So I was sitting in my overrated, life-sucking, death-advancing, sanity-stripping, soul-deteriorating, time and space –consuming eleven o’clock class.

The walls are white, the tables are white. The ceiling is white. The tiles are white. The professor’s hair is white. Surprisingly though, the chairs are black. Talk about spur of the moment. Heh.


My location? Second row to the right.

Why?

'Cause I always sit in the middle row, 'cause I'm cool like that.

Nah. Its ‘cause in the third row, I wouldn’t think twice about falling asleep - to hell with decorum.

And first row. Well, first row is divided into two parts.

First row left is saved for that special class of people who nod when the professor is talking and smile when he cracks a joke that is lame’s long lost ancestor and think no one can see them. Little do they know.

First row right is saved for the imbeciles enough to show up very late.


Such detail, you say.
I like detail, so sue me. Hmph!


The row in front of me fills out to be an all testosterone infested row.

So I sit, well more like wiggle around in my chair, to try and find that comfort zone. It doesn’t work, and I end up squirming like I have to pee the whole way through class. It’s not my fault the chairs are so hard!

I think they should adopt beanie bags, and screw ass-flattening chairs!


The lecture starts, and I can hear bits and pieces….

Then fifteen minutes into it, my brain and ears just give way… and my eyes starts absorbing petty detail like how many lights there are in the classroom (12) and how many dots on each tile of the ceiling (45).


I then look in front of me, and I’m blinded by an entire row of boxers surfacing to inhale fresh air. All colors, and sizes. I'm assuming boxers have one standard look/shape. If not, well...I don’t know ;( . Anyway... so a whole row of boxers! Imagine that.

If I was any different, I’d blush and look away. Sadly, I’m not.

Instead, I realized that pubescent boys or ‘men’ (I believe that’s what they go by these days, correct me if I’m wrong), find, with great zeal, the concept of a shred of their boxers flowing out a very capital sex on stick idea.

Apparently their asses need to breathe? Meh.

And then, I get this idea, and it makes me all jumpy.

I’ll share I’ll share- I swear.

Here goes:

Imagine they have jokes (yes, little Timmy ones included), or little puzzles at the back of each pair of boxers?

I for one, would find myself forever entertained!

I mean, the boxer sticks out anyway...so it's just efficient use of material!

As a result, when you look at someone's boxers you are no longer disgusted, but want to fixate them till you can coherently read the puzzle/joke.

And if they’ve got the right goods, in the correct proportions, you can check out their ass sans getting caught in flagrante delicto, and maybe ask them for the answer?

And thus concludes the Boxer Effect :)

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In Passing, One Day.

She saw the earth in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The earth pondered, and then replied: "To remain still in one segment of time, and never progress. To be left behind - a traveler in my own land."

She saw the sun in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The sun immediately answered: "A state of numbness, that no ray of warmth can ever penetrate through its shell of stillness. A state where heat is a solace beyond my reach."

She saw the moon in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The moon heavily sighed and then said: "An ever encompassing darkness, where in exists no hope. It would wrap around you stealthily, till you are both one."

She saw the rain in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The rain shivered, and with a far away look responded: "A dusty dryness so palpable, limiting all tactile sensory."


She saw herself in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
Herself fixated her, and asked her to follow.

They stepped in front of a glass pane, and herself pointed at the face staring back.

The empty dark brown eyes.
The straight mouth.
The taut skin.

Her face. Her.

She lifted her hand, and an identical hand lifted across the glass pane.

Herself looked at her and whispered: "And now you know my greatest fear". And with that, Herself faded into the crowds.

She turned to the glass pane and stared momentarily, swallowed by two, familiar yet so alien dark brown pits.

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A Native Tongue.

Yes, its been a while.

But I really have been busy.

Enjoy.

Carpe Diem

;)

____________________.

"One loves with their heart," he proclaimed."Give me your heart and I'll give you mine."

A layer of silence settled down and thickened. Nothing was said. Yet, she spoke in a native tongue - that of silence.



One loves with their heart?

The vital organ of life - that heart?

Give me your heart and I'll give you mine...

That heart serves only one purpose - that of keeping your temporary body alive. A body that acts as a medium in which we 'live'.


That heart is not really mine.

How can I give you something I do not own?

The only thing anyone really owns is their soul.

Still, what if you love someone with your heart, then when you no longer ‘live’, does that mean you no longer love them?

What if you give someone your heart, and they 'break' it, do you die?

What if you want your heart back, but I want to keep it forever? What then? Do you die as well?


What if my heart has a mind of its own, and doesn't want to come back to me? Do I die?

But if its not this literal, then what heart do you figuratively refer to?


What, then, do you really give someone you love?

Emotions?

Promises?

Hope?

Yet, emotions, grow, change, shrink, fade and disappear.

Promises eventually become empty words.

And hope is scarce and indefinite- a glimpse of what could be.


So when we speak of the heart do we refer to the design that we've subconsciously sketched and associate with compassion? Are we talking about that 'heart'?

Where is this 'heart'?

Is it palpable?

Is it active?

Is it warm?

Do I have one?

Oh 'heart' of mine, do you hear me?


Everyone has a heart. But does everyone have a 'heart'?

In the same way, not everyone has compassion.

Am I compassionate?

Do I deserve compassion?


Then again, if you loved someone with your soul - does it last forever?

It can't be eternal? Can it?

Surely the need to strive forward will cancel its perpetual state.

Does a soul have a 'heart'?

Is that where you are, oh 'heart'?

How do you love with your soul?

Do you give your soul?


But my soul is me.

I can't give you me.

I can only give myself me.



But she spoke in a native tongue- that of silence.

Heed the silence and its message, he did not.

Hear its whisper, he could not.

Thus, he waited.

And she finally replied: "I'm afraid I can't take your heart: I don't have space enough for two. I can't give you my own for I've yet to find what that really is."

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Maybe Is No Certainly.

Maybe you can bring me back, you say.

Maybe you can save my lost soul.

Maybe you can bring out that shy me.

Maybe you can please my inner child.

Maybe you can help my battered self.

Maybe you can restore my beliefs.

Maybe you can attempt to revive those parts I put six feet under.

Maybe you can make everything all well again.

Maybe you can aid me in getting through this, you assure me.

Maybe you can help me and I'll make it.

Maybe you can try your hardest.

Maybe you can let me dream again, you plead.

Maybe you can bring back my innocence.

Maybe you can dim the past.

Maybe you can open my eyes.


Maybe you can bring me back, you say yet again.


But then again, maybe you can't, I say at last.

Because 'Maybe' is no certainly.

'Maybe' is that hidden hope.

'Maybe' is for the children of tomorrow.


I believe in now.

'Cause that's all I have.


'Maybe' is no certainly.

And so 'Maybe' isn't for me.

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