On A Man's Journey

I am twisted beyond compare. Not that I am evil, but I can never call myself pure either.

I have lost the innocence I like to believe I have.

Life happened. As much as I want to be like I was when I was a child, I can't.

You learn stuff. You grow up. Old beliefs are shattered, left behind, forgotten.

You lose what being a child is--to be living in your own piece of the real world--as you are discovering more of what the world has to offer.

So I have not always walked the straight road, and I have had my share of crooked paths.

I know I have strayed, and I came back.

The Reality of Existence

There are things that will always be beyond your control.

Like time. Sunset, sunrise, the equinox and solstice.

Seasons. The birth of new life in spring. The reassuring warmth of summer. The change of colors and the start of rest in autumn. The liquid silence of winter.

Age. Everything alive experiences it.

Death. It is inevitable, especially to those whose time comes so soon.

Tears. They are bound to fall someday. Maybe not now. Maybe not at the time or place you thought it would come. Maybe not for the person you thought deserves them. But they will fall. We are human after all.

Emotions. There are a lot to name and still remain unnamed. Like happiness, laughter, undisciplined giggles and chortles behind hands and fans and buried in arms, and red faces and knee-slapping fun.

Sadness, crying, whimpers and tears and ugly sobbing not meant for television, and hiccups and wobbling chins and tearing at the hair on your head and into pillows and teddy bears and friends' shoulders.

Anger, red, pulsing, FUCK YOU TO THE DEEPEST PITS OF HELL, throwing things and words and punches, screaming, red faces and flying spittle and breaking down of objects and walls and relationships and families.

Love. It cannot even be put into words, even if many had attempted to do so in the past. Many had tried to describe it, many had tried to define it. But to no avail. It is beautiful and ugly (though some deny it to be so, it is not alway an easy way through it). Some believe it doesn't exist. Some only find it in books and movies and fleeting encounters that never happen again. Some say they never find it at all. But there are different types of love, and one will always get one. Even if it hurts. Because it is love.

Fate. The future. Serendipity, kismet, destiny, whatever you call it in your language. But this my friend is up to you.



There are things that will always be beyond your control. Things you cannot even begin to imagine.


And this is the world we live in.

A "Bunch of Stuff"

It was a bunch of lies, that pile of stuff that she proudly declared to define her.

It wasn't the fancy camera; it was the memories frozen in time.

It wasn't the diploma; it was the years of learning and friendship.

It wasn't the stack of rejected manuscripts; it was the hope of just one more chance to prove yourself to the world.

It wasn't the stash of resumes; it was the drive to find your place in the world.

It wasn't the love letters from an old flame; it was the feelings of a first love.

So it wasn't "just a bunch of stuff." That part was a lie.

It was a bunch of her.

Boats of Everything

I wrote our love story in a paper boat and let it set sail on that murky river of regret. The waters were full of disappointments, strewn with bitter tears and broken hearts. It was polluted with angst and distrust, contaminated with betrayal and sadness. These were the waters in which anyone would never wish to drown in.

But against the whirlpools of depression, through the waves of grief, and past the storms of conflict, that tiny boat sailed on. It has little tears and splashes, but it stubbornly sails on. It may be battered. It certainly is imperfect. It has its own flaws, and it may need repairs more often than not. And it can sink. But the fact that it doesn't makes it special.

The dark waters are strong, but the paper boat held on.

There is a time that will come when maybe the boat will sink, that it will wash ashore as a pulpy, nondescript piece of garbage. But we will know its story, the waters it has crossed and the storms it has weathered.

And that will be enough. It has proved its worth, and met its nautical miles. It has told its story, and made one of its own. Of how to fight and let go. To hold on, to sail on, and find the dock it belongs to.

The Waiting Game

It was a waiting game.




They can't talk. They can't even let anybody know they were aware of each other's existence.




But it was all thrilling. And they were in for the excitement.



He throws stones at her window, and she pokes out her head and smirked at him. "What are you, a lovesick teenager?"

He frowns. "Just get down here."

She meets him at the sidewalk, the asphalt cold from the melting snow.

"...when is this going to stop?"

He looks up.

"What?"

"This game... when will we reach that final stage?"

He tilts his head, biting his lip.

"I don't know."

She scuffs her feet at the slush, making patterns at the asphalt with the toe of her shoe.

"I don't know."