screams echoing; reverberating through my chest, up my spine, through my lips as it pierces everything. i am scared, yes, but i am not in a state of rigor mortis. dying is a prerequisite to that, and i'm not dying quite yet.
though the soul isn't there, the hope is. and hope is all i need right now. because once i lose hope, i lose my ability to speak. and silence is the deatliest weapon. emptiness follows suit.
spirits die when hope is in absence; and i'm almost dead now. body is moving, mind is in motion, but for how much longer?
nothing left to do now but hope, and hope is a fickle thing. sometimes i wonder if i have nothing i will appreciate the something i had, and scorn myself for not holding it tight.
i am one to despair easily, and this is a landslide under my feet; no survival. i can only yearn for sunny skies.
blood-red over a divided country, blue becomes indestinguishable.
the migration begins now. so all we have to do is stay hopeful; stay aware; informed- you just have to find a clean dove.
renew our state of being before this state becomes renewed.
winter is here now, coming in like a vicious knight, riding in on its ice and breeze, the chill reaching down into your bones.
piercing even through the skin, it is defining and stoic, not stopping for the rain nor snow, the leaves are retreating into hiding. your fingers are pure white, blenidng in with the clouds.
light blue skies are quiet, and the branches that once were perched upon are suddenly empty. it is a duality of being frozen in time and yearning for change
my eyelashes are frosted over, icecles on my shoulders. melting and refreezing relentlessly.
let it be heard now; this is what it means to be alive:
1) you can never escape the past; it is definitive and irrevocable
as humans, we treat the past as some kind of entity that has no real inflection on our futures and presents. this is false. the past is our definition, our being, and our creator. if you reconcile with the past the bounty of the present is ever-loving.
2) no matter what, someone is looking for you.
as humans, we seek. as such; someone is always seeking your love, they are not far but distance is our omnipresent ideal, it keeps us from the brutish deitizing of others, and it is whatever we have made. we can always seek for someone that loves us.
3) nothing you do will suffice to make an impact on the world
at least, not by yourself. by acknowledging our minute existence you will realize we are much stronger together than we are apart. like that one haudenosaunee man with the arrows, we are unbreakable together, so hold hands and unify.
4) we are never done becoming
our final aspect is our sheer being, we are always becoming, always metamorphasizing and transforming. such is the rules of life, to live is to become, and to become is to live. this is one of the only cycles that are not bloodied and corrupted.
thanksgiving is almost an ode to winter; its cranberries ever so reminiscent of mistletoe and hollyberries. warm food with a forewarning of christmas ham or warm challah. i've never been religious but there's something about thanksgiving and christmas that make me feel like there might be a God or something of the sort. after all, the world is full of the "might be"s so i wouldn't be suprised. there is something so sacred about family coming to see you over the holidays. i almost worship it.
thanksgiving is almost an ode to winter; its cranberries ever so reminiscent of mistletoe and hollyberries. warm food with a forewarning of christmas ham or warm challah.
i've never been religious but there's something about thanksgiving and christmas that make me feel like there might be a God or something of the sort. after all, the world is full of the "might be"s so i wouldn't be suprised.
there is something so sacred about family coming to see you over the holidays.
i almost worship it.
november is so haunting that way. you feel as if there is still a last leaf to fall but the clouds and cold beg to differ. they scoff at the attachment (dependence?) to warmth we have.
and maybe this warmth is not so much a dependence or attachment but the need to have? desire goes a long way.
if God is real, i feel as if God, being just that; godly, is only ever felt by me in the winter seasons because of warmth. God tends to be associated with warmth and light: good, which is always something i think about around the holidays.
good is something ingrained and etched into almost every child. something about virtous actions, good, and this hope for warmth is reflected in our memories of holiday, we idolize warmth and goodness, and i cant help but think that God has something to do with that. just think about the attributes of christmas and other such winter holidays.
and back to that thing about thanksgiving and winter. today i went to my aunt's house like every time i've went for thanksgiving. but this time was different. the tree was already up, gloating its beautiful lights as it stood tall in the window.
maybe thanksgiving is not an ode to winter but a transition. that makes christmas the transition to the new year.
i don't think i'm quite ready for change yet, but maybe God is. so i suppose i will have to be too.
interlocked fingers; praying to whatever waits for us that it shall do just that: wait. because patience is a virtue so maybe deities and divines also adhere to those; something so infentesimal that it is insignificant to greater beings.
intertwined hair; weaving inbetween my fingertips, soft and straight, thick and dark. you are the only reason i continue to wait here, for even a chance to reconvene. feel you one last time.
intermingling souls; mine is yours, yours in mine. hearts in sync, you are mine and i am never going to be yours. you are too far gone now but in spirit we are somehow together.
intervening lives; consequential enough to become one in the same; we are one, we are none, we have been and and will be. flicker in and out, love on/off.
in time, we will find what it means to truly be together.
you write letters in dark red ink, blood pacts adressed to your "love". calling me all these stupid insignificant names and still, every time i fall for it, so enchanted by something so infinitesimal that shouldn't have mattered anyway. the mystification and close-corners of what it means to be with you, cold hands on my waist, warm breath fogging the air. i am waiting for you, chaste maiden and all, robes made of blood red satin. snow on heart, ice-tainted oaths.
i. i still love you, after everything. my mother says that spite is unhealthy and i'm too cynical, but maybe pessimism is just another way to bear the weight of month after month of self-imposed loathing.
ii. aphrodite is goddess of love and beauty but lately i've been feeling like hecate. maybe i was born for path-leading as opposed to being made for mourning losses. actually, nevermind. you would only laugh at me for not mourning and call me stoic and dismal.
iii. my father called today and i said someone hated him. i was joking but he was distraught enough for my heart to snap. maybe love is caring is love. i do not think i can care enough for it to be love. maybe pining.
i am afraid that one day my life will be ruined, there's so much in a name. juliet feigns that were rose not rose called, the flower would still be as beautiful and as sweet. but i disagree. were roses called dandelions they would only be putrid, dandelion is weed named in essence, were roses dandelions called, they too would be ripped from the maw of the earth.
what makes a name? i feel strongly as though the actions a name holds are passed down. were your predecessor of the name a great person, would you not feel pressured to do just that? be great? maybe that is the tradition in a name. roses are beautiful, romantic, graceful. anything sharing that name falls under the pressure to be beautiful, romantic, graceful.
as juliet says; "what is montague? it is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face. nor any other part belonging to a man." she was right about something there. "montague" is only a name. but it carries so much history alongside it. that is why names are formative. they carry their histories, their past loves, future undoings, and present memories. they record.
Last edited by herb on Fri Dec 20, 2024 12:51 am, edited 2 times in total.
the first rule of present tense conjugation is that the singular first person ends in the letter o. except, when it doesnt. voy.
going is irregular, and i wonder if that is because it is simply fleeting in the present in past, that in the future, going is normal. it is the idea of leaving (irse, saliendo, etc.) that makes it fathomable later. postponing the inevitable.
sometimes, i write out conjugation tables for fun. it's not so much that i need to- i am confident in my ability to take "traducir" into the past perfect, walking between the timelines. i do it so that the memory of doing is not lost. so i cannot forget what i had worked so hard for
i'm a bit harsher on myself with the reflexive. caerse, levantarse, irse, convetirse, etc. they all change, "me caigo", "nos levantamos", "os ibais", and so on.
i am not used to change. the word, "cambiar", itself, "to change", is changing on my tongue. it used to lay heavy in the air like hielo, or cacahuate. the sounds were weighty. they had depth. now, it feels quicker, airier. hechizo, ejemplo, bouncy, free words that unshackle themselves. that is how cambiar, cambió.
the change aspect of it all is progressive. it is changing, cambiando por el tiempo, using the está then the progressive conjunction. it has little to no irregularities, aside from the small spelling changes.
he says not to worry and then reads me a passage of romeo and juliet.
i can't help but fall for him harder and harder, listening to him say "wherefore" is enough for me to jump, tangled in love.
i wrap my arm around his shoulder and hold him like i'm gripping onto a rope, climbing.
his breath is short and words are blunt. another slip up, he claims, but i swear i almost heard him say he loved me.
i'm too young to know anything yet, but this is almost as heavenly as clinging onto an angel.
gripping his wings as he laughs, sighing as he looks at me, yearning for him to just tell me those three words.
sailing through his eyes as i run through his wheat field of hair and the dip and curve of his shoulders. spectating as he tells me the meaning of life, he sits there as i contemplate love and ethics.
i told him that all someone had to do to take my heart was to give me a sweet, and he said that he'd bake me a cake, his specialty.
