Any Other World

The possibility kills me,
an unconscious thread,
an absurd yearning for another life,
which might wake me someday
like an overnight snow
outstretched across the field; white.

I lost my life to another life,
a new life will never come or never be,
even a horror like Kafka’s Metamorphosis
comforts me with the chance of another.
That savoring, blinding hope
robs me of this one; the only one I have.

Mirror in the Mirror

“When two mirrors are facing each other, how many mirror images are there?”

Infinite – meaningless

It’s not about waking up, it’s not about the correct counting.

It’s about nothing. It’s about being nothing hoping to be something. The hopeless dream yearning to be woken up someday to be another. Like the endless images between two mirrors facing each other. Nothing is real except your present presence between them.

Scream, if you can.

<February 15th, 2017>

Forgive, Forgiven

Forgive, forgiven. The remotest words from me.

I can hate, I can resent, I can hold spite, I can grind the hatred between my teeth all day, all night. But somehow, hating someone that much needs the energy I simply don’t have right now. I want to direct my finite power to myself, not to others, not to enemies, not to friends, just to me. I have lived my life, but I am not sure how much of it was mine. It wasn’t like that my life was taken away. Like someone who lived as a political prisoner or a captive of a war. It was me who neglected my life, my time, my body, my power, my little wishes, my simple pleasures, my sleep, my hands and knees, my ears and tongue, my thought, my joy, my sorrow, my idleness, and my dream. I didn’t tend enough of me residing in me, being too busy in feeding others, reading others, showing things to others, directing others, pleasing others, displeasing others, correcting others, ignoring others, shaming others, thinking others, being angry at others, being disappointed in others, and thinking how others were thinking of me. Now I need to let go of the significance of others in me.

I will start with breathing. Bringing my unconscious movements of my lungs into my conscious motions. Expanding the chest broad to hold the bright air of the world in. Then, eyes. Seeing things that please me and storing them in my heart to cherish. Then, ears. Filling my spiral eardrums with the sounds that vibrate for a long time in my soul. Then, nose. Taking in smells of peppermint, rosemary, lavender, oregano, mimosa, jasmine, and all fresh living things surrounding me. Then, mouth. Melting bitter with sweets, contemplating slowly every bit of life spiced up its distinctive flavor. And my beating machine of life. Filling my anemic bloodthirsty heart with the shower of dark red iron. The fully charged heart will pump my life out to march, march forward, or backward, or any direction. It will be just fine. Then, I will put my two hands on my belly, which worked so hard to sustain me this far but was always neglected because it was not up to my best expectant shape. I will let it warm with my two palms and appease its deprived being with my own body temperature. And finally, my head. I will stroke it whenever I have time giving the praises that it needed many, many times in life.

Maybe, maybe I am the one who needs to be forgiven by myself. Forgive, then forgiven.

<November 16, 2016>

Oozing Out Existence

Like a beetle stepped on, you ooze out of yourself,
and you little scrap of carapace and adaptability is meaningless.
-from Notebook of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke –

What’s skin? What’s inside and outside? What will ooze out when some giant thing step on me? Blood and indistinguishable fluids mixed with organs and flesh, and some bones. That will be me, coming out of my skin. That will be me, spilling out my guts.

Will that be all of me? All of my past, my present, and my future? My anguish, my troubling thoughts, my sleepless dreams, my secret wishes and no-brake longings or yearnings, my stubborn mind sometimes up against my intense feelings, my will and patience which can grow a watermelon out of a pumpkin seed, the people I buried in my heart, the faces I see when I close my eyes with the throbbing pains in my chest, the smell and the touch I am still holding onto, the sweetness of those words and voices, the sunshine, the breeze, the music hung there like a morning mist for those moments, the road, the road alone, the road together, the sadness that almost killed me in that grey spring with all the buds coming out, those things I’ve done so wrong and those things still undone, the life lived fully, or the life barely touched, the sweat, the tears, and the laughs, the heartbreaks, and the soul limping days, longer nights, the dawn, the dusk, my poor reflection on the water, my lengthening shadow at the end of the day, the asphalt, the fluff of my white dog, the wagging tail and spotty pink paws of him, his jumping on the green field where the green couldn’t be greener, the disappointments of life, still believing the absurd human beings, the broken promises, the untied knots, all sorts of flowers laid on Ellen’s table I didn’t catch the names, the joy of the unexpected encounters blooming someway in time, the delicacy of human interactions and their fragileness, or their tenacity, the hopelessness of my hopes, and the shamelessness of my desire. Oh, my eyelids that can’t quite cover my eyes blazing like torches in the inky black nights searching for a strand of light giving the meaning of my existence.

Will all of those ooze out and disperse in the air when my blood is spattering like red roses in the wedding aisle? If one can really break out of the skin, what will that be?

<October 14th, 2016>