A solemn question

Thursday, October 6th, 2011 UTC

23. What motivates you in life?

Aww well, this is sort of a solemn question, so I’ll do my best to answer in kind.

What motivates me in earnest is wanting to be a good person. Wanting to take advantage of everything we’ve been given. If I think about the fact that we’re standing on forty thousand generations of thinking men and women who have carried and expanded our consciousness to where it is now… I like science, so I also think about how we’re standing on fourteen billion years of evolution from the moment the whole universe was as big as speck of dust, and now for the first time in our planet, a living being can study and realize this.

It all really humbles me. I want to do my part to honor this ancestry, and contribute what I can. To me, that’s what being a good person means. I think the best contribution is goodwill, happiness, and peace. I think it would be great if all those billions of years could culminate in a conscious harmony.

But, it’s just so amazing to me that we have a head at all, so I use my mind the best I can, learning new things always. The same with art, and everything else. So that’s what motivates me.

I want success of course – notoriety, wealth, approval – everyone does. But they’re just accessories, the icing for the cake. In high school I could never get myself to actually work to a goal like “get good grades” because it felt empty. It’s not the end that matters, it’s the reason… And the reason should always be love.

Seasonal Haiku No. 5

Monday, December 21st, 2009 UTC

barren scenery—
virescent reminiscence;
gelid, biting cold.

A Solipsistic Dream

Wednesday, April 15th, 2009 UTC

Original en español: Un sueño solipsista

eyes half open;
I see you in the distance.
I come closer slowly;
still distant,
you wave at me with your hand;
still distant,
and I wave back at you at the same time.

you see me in the distance;
your eyes half open.
you come closer slowly,
still distant,
I wave at you with my hand;
still distant,
you wave back at me,
at the same time.

I know it because I see you with my eyes,
and you know it because you see me with yours.

I see you in my mind through my eyes,
which are mine since it’s through them I see.
and you see me in your mind through your eyes,
which are yours since through them you see.

but as we get closer I see that it’s my hand that you wave in the air;
and you realise that the hand with which I wave at you is yours.
and in my mind I see that the eyes with which you see me are my own;
and in your mind you see that the eyes with which I see you are your own.

because I am you,
and you are me;
because you exist in my mind,
or I exist in yours?

baffled and upset

Sunday, September 28th, 2008 UTC

agitated place;
a distant and foreign land…
I hear gibberish.

Somebody Killed Little Susie

Thursday, April 24th, 2008 UTC

She turned the wooden tune about six times before the melody sprang forth. Humming to the rhythm, Little Susie swung her legs sticking out of the balcony, watching everyone walk in slumb’ry agitation, immersed in deep thought about money or something to the effect of economics and drinks. Needless to say, no one heard her humming, yet she carried on turning the wooden tune and humming.

One day Little Susie, the girl who sang with the tune at daytime and noon, appear’d dead next to the scarlet-coated flight of stairs. Father had left home, mother had died, and grandfather’s soul was a bygone memory Little Susie fought so hard to keep in living, along with her life itself. Nobody came too soon. She was there screaming, beating her voice in her doom, yet no one heard. It was not different from her cruel life in an isolated corner, where all of us put her and kept her there with our indifference. Every day, she turned the wooden tune, but nobody heard her humming pleas.

She lie there so timidly, in a fashion so slenderly, one cannot doubt the frailty of a little child. What to do when, upon screaming, nobody is there? A full hour pass’d ere we assembled on the child’s forsaken house, to see the girl who was dead. Suddenly a voice from the crowd said this girl liv’d in vain, with such agony and strain, half of us broke in tears, seething in pain, feeling the slippery scarlet between our hands. How much can one bear? How much time till one of us felt her despair? The days stroll’d by nonchalantly, neglecting Susie’s needs in her humming prayers.

Only a man from next door knew Little Susie; oh he cried, as he reached down to close Susie’s eyes. He blinded her vacant stare, bereft of life, with a white cloth that made haste to turn red, and lifted her with care, with the blood in her hair. We came too late. To scream while no one is there… To live whilst feeling there is no hope… to pray and receive no answer…. It was our fault, even the man from next door who knew Little Susie. Neglection can kill, when no one cares. And Little Susie fought so hard to live.

Oh mate, let us not kill Little Susie! Can you not hear the air muddled with prayers and cries of help? Do not push Little Susie down the flight of stairs.

rivulet of life.

Sunday, April 13th, 2008 UTC

just like paper-boats,
people wander off— adrift;
caught up in a stream.

Bomb shelter, with no bomb call.

Saturday, April 12th, 2008 UTC

If you bear with me, I wish you to picture in neat colours several images, and make of them what your heart thinks is becoming of the case.

A person bending their knees, and then sprinting, amid a roaring battle-cry, into a massive flying kick, only to crash bluntly against a wall of steel, without making as much as a scratch unto it, whilst sustaining several fractures.

A paper airplane dashing, airborne, with grace and elegance unto an open classroom, only to meet with closed shutters, activated at the time of arrival. The paper is rendered crippled and bent, losing its beauty between two plastic blades.

A hammer raised unto the sky, shining with the afternoon sun, whilst taking careful aim at a nail that awaits the blow. The hammer dives in a swift movement unto the nail, only to bend it into a most weird shape, useless and less rigid than butter on a midsummer day. The wood is most certainly not pierced, and it waits in disappointment, contemplating the epic failure produced thence.

You decided what to make of them? Dumb question, I understand.  I will just elaborate on mine thoughts.

Fresh ideas have so many tints and colours, textures, shapes, fragrances… Upon the beholder’s eyes, some are dark purple, with blotches, oval shaped, and carry this putrefactive smell of a flat’s residues, rotting in the sun; some are perfect circles with an olive-green hue, and smell of roses and of far green countries under a swift sunrise. Splendid, bland, incomplete, or simply dull, as it is, ideas fly upon this world, turbo-sped with rockets.

What happens, then, when an idea collides with a mind that has been closed with heavy locks, dusty and rusty on its hinges, that will not take any visitors, will suffer no guests, will have none of it? There is a huge explosion at the doorstep of the mind, and the idea evaporates with the smouldering blazes that are swept away by the wind. The idea verily might go to waste, unto uncharted skies where no one will ever look upon again…  That is the fate of some great ideas that have flown into closed gates.

What if the idea was positively worthy?! That is terrifying, that a fantastic idea collides against a closed mind and vanishes from this world.

But wait, there is more. The explosion lasted for an instant, less than a simple heartbeat, and the smoke vanishes into thin air with blinding speed. There is nothing… And yet the mind is alert of such by-gone intruder, and immediately flees into a bomb shelter, without previous bomb call. No wail of warning filled the sky, but the mind is already in motion, locked even further, deep in a bunker, dragging what it can into the walls, positively quivering in fear despite never having seen the nonexistent mayhem.

This is mindless ranting, so if you bear with me for a moment, let us wrap this up in a nifty envelope. The mind is to have its gates open, welcoming foreign riders for an ale and at least letting them sit upon the hall table and share their views of the world. Now, it is to have a stead fast determination and some judgement, for when the foreigner draws blade and tips the table in an insulting fashion or something not becoming of a proper guest, it ought to be thrown out by the citadel guards. However, the mind is to listen at least, open its vaults of knowledge and light the beacons, for as annoying, brazen, rude, charming, eloquent, astute, etc. the foreigner may be, there is a bit to learn from its words ere it departs.

Open those gates!! Do not let the idea crash upon the gates! Do not flee, enveloped in panic, when the rider comes hence. You know not for sure what accompanies it. There is no bomb call wailing.