This is just a storage of the raw

The mind is constantly changing.

Sunday, 18 September 2016

Ingrata

Today I felt the effects of poverty.

When I was murdering the malnourished poultry, the only ones left for produce, the source of financial capacity, when I thought I had to prevent the little ones from leaving the inside, cracking their skulls with the door as I try to open and close the same with absolute intensity because they could go outside with simple negligence from me, as if I took the responsibility of looking over them when I, myself, was in varying degrees of self-doubt. I had no intentions to respect the dead as I maintain the posture of what redundantly may or may not be what I want or do not want to be. My father's face was all it took to realize that what I did was a mistake because we have nothing, nothing else.

When I was avoiding an enormous beast with two of its almost normal siblings outside, where the beautiful lime berries grow and where I burn all the things that no longer deserve the merit of existence, as it was common sense to avoid the same as someone who was not an adult, an immature feral object, locking myself inside along with other little ones whom I treat as deserving and not deserving of what may be called protection, letting the adults go to work at the limited outside just as how it was signified to be by custom. I was forlorn and apprehensive that I always open the door that I kill the weaker ones, as if unaware of what I call danger to the blameless and those who do or do not do without discernment. I was so afraid to do the simple task of feeding the biggest threat as I was in between being the weak and the worker, unable to contribute or aid albeit slightly, assuming it was right, that it might wake up, even without signs of animosity, and swallow my surprisingly undeniably protected becoming of nothing, nothing else.

When I was struggling to go back, streets were polluted with shit and the rotten and, as if alive, always wary of impending accident and accepted carelessness, but the buses were so reckless when driven, full and ready to hit and run as I crossed the streets, but I had no money that I had to walk in quite an unreasonable distance to what I unfortunately call home that I dismissed the ordeal as ergonomics and forget that I was doing it as a chore to move without a place to go to and from the beginning. I walked through the fucking dirt and mud of cultured nature while taking the road farther away from everything with my knees and palms just to let it cross my mind that I have nothing, nothing else.

Saturday, 15 March 2014

Notional Ekphrasis 2

I never look at people anymore. I lost interest entirely, and I feel that the detachment is clearly becoming a habit. I am skeptical whether to take it as negative or the otherwise because I prefer it at the same time I know I should invest in socializing as it will do wonders when I pursue my career, if ever I am given the chance. Do I do what I don't want to do?

Perhaps there is a way to reconciliation, but it is something that I still have to find out.

Friday, 14 March 2014

Screws Inside

There was an ill taste when the massacre was ordered as the nature of the world. The knife cut the vital organ of the mother, who fell and died immediately thereafter . It served as the sign of the burning; and people evacuated with the savage mammals. When co-existence became unbearable, people in groups of unfamiliar relation reposed in narrow and almost spaceless rooms. The initiation took place. A brother was  lifted by an unknown force, and his neck was cut by gravity. The air was heavy and threatening, as the room continued to bleed with the sister. The father trespassed without malice, and he was possessed by an anger that feared all others. It attacked each entrances, destroying the barricade of privacy. There was change, but the eerie remained. There was always a hunt, and it will not stop until in corrupts the peace of mind.

Monday, 3 February 2014

Notional Ekphrasis 1

I was taught be my mother to be frugal. At the same time, I was taught by father to be lavish and generous. Both not only portray what each literally meant; each resulted with a conditioned discipline. 'Sometimes,' I am attracted and then eventually submit to consumerism - the technical and most accurate term for this scenario that I am about to berate. It feels as if I have to perpetually represent myself based on the standards set by the pursuit of capital. With this, I have to ensure to myself that I should be updated with it, and possess (there seems to be no necessity to own) the same update at the earliest possible time it was made public. And, it's not even the news.

This is where the recession, not in (only) the economy, but in the mind, starts. The concept of favorable recognition no longer resides in an effort to sharpen plain intellect, on developing how we think, respond, signify, and collect our words for proper expression and discourse; it now seeks to feed the empty tunnel of the objectified appearance. Like excessive humor, it relaxes our productivity to its minimum, if not being outright nil. It goes in and out just the way a garbage is disposed. It drills the skull with the brain where there is no longer balance, but just a hollow nothingness without its philosophical connotations.

What's worse, it attracts even those who do not have the capacity to maintain the habit to the point of misuse. It is a formulated distraction that quietly advertises impracticality. I do not say that a momentary escape from the ideal is absolutely undignified, but when it evolves into constancy is where the weariness begins to exist. This is not categorical decency, and should never be.

We take pride that we are no longer primitive, and that is to be glorified indeed, but we forget the basic is what we only need or even just want to survive; that we utilize what we discover not for convenience, but to seek more challenge. It is unending, or ends with a mere thought of 'Oh, I see' whilst harboring the same as a learned practice. If we misplace our sense of what we deserve, we lose the opportunity to experience what should naturally come out as fruitful.

Consistent to this blog, this is raw and unfiltered. I have yet to hasten my ideas about this, among other things. Should I say I probably would not, and no longer persist in proving the point I have just thought about above? I admit I lose them, ideas, to which my subconscious is probably conflicted in either keeping or neglecting the same until I get another or get preoccupied with what I meant with 'sometimes.' I am supposed to study, so this is the end.

Sunday, 26 January 2014

Untitled

So what if I kill another?
In the mind, the body, the soul, the gut
After all,
We merely recede, progress, and remain
True to our origins
And, disappear

Friday, 2 September 2011

Not-Defunct Engine

The man escapes like a rotten rogue around the high lights of the night sky. The clay is starting to mutate, to control the elevation and movement of the inflatables. The world, in its grave weight, suffocates in helium; the man unknowing.

The man paces to the occupied modernity. He violates the knowledge and pleads for forgiveness for what sin the refused tried to clean. Libra moves. The knowledge is dead. Time altered in persistent form. The clay forms in solidification, reformed in blue heaven. There is a tick tock. Finding the death of waterlessness and not-purpose lying, the clay removes the illumination of the world. The man senses.

The man departs from the brooding ignition of obscurity. He rejects the moon and pleads for forgiveness for what sin the refused tried to clean and stops, unknowing. No heartbeat is heard.

I am man.

I was awakened and found my body healed from injury in an underwater sanatorium. I breathed into the water, feeling the familiar sense of comfort in lost element. I was comfortable to have been placed in a setting. The entirety was made of clay in blue heaven.

As the white door opened, the sanatorium, it seemed, was empty. Outside the chamber where I was from, the ceiling was beyond sight. The windows were unreachable and detached from its purpose, but the light from the exterior provided unnerving light. There was neither internal logic nor coherence. There was no access, only open attachment. When I looked outside, it was advanced in gradual diffusion. The unnatural was there, but non-existent. I was alone.

I ran towards the spiral stairway, ascending. The top was the exit and entrance. There were doors made of different material, appealing in its presence. I remained still in the middle of the corridor. It was dull and cold and I felt alive. I remembered a distant dream. The underwater nil, I breathed air.

Friday, 21 January 2011

Birdcage

I was in my school uniform, walking through the side street beside the dilapidated form of a garden where flowers were blooming with striking color despite the leaving of afternoon. My backpack was heavy and the black birdcage I was holding was loosely being waved back and forth my blameless hand. The bird in it was struggling and dying.

A moment of delayed realization set my senses that I was grasping a thing with life. Inclined to deduction, the door of the cage tore open upon hitting the cement and unintentionally abused the bird out, lying on its stomach. The degree of gravity remained unresponsive, the way it was supposed to be.

I bent down and gripped it tight, anxiously in thought of preventing it to fly away. Around the bend, it was still then it shook. I held it relentlessly. Its face of sadness prevented my conscious from progressing. There was a constant struggle, but nobody won.

Thursday, 20 January 2011

Mudhouse

"It is not well."

The new born dog named Charlie was having a heart failure. It could barely breathe on my hands. It was fragile and shaking. In a room, the bed was creaking with the movements of panic and agitation to the existing predicament that only has one fix, but cureless. There was only pity.

The three of us decided to call a former veterinarian - the only one we knew. With urgency, we asked for it to be operated. There was a sudden illustration of destination and forced hope. Once an agreement was established, we left it, attempting to forget.

Without the marks of it in our mindfulness as time naturally paced forward, barking was heard from the outside. We opened the door and it was there, waving its tail. It grew up, healthy and stitched, unrecognizable and persevering, unaware of changed assurances and precedence. Then there was a selection.

I woke up beside a cold wall inside a house filled with mud. The house was divided by metal screen - weak, hard, and threatening. There was darkness, but it laid peacefully sleeping on the other side.

I tried breaking the metal screen open with my body and finish the regret inflicted upon my leaving. After several use of force, it woke up gently and did the same thing on its side. It was mimicking my motivation, but not my remorse. There was neither in nor out to this filth. What I didn't notice was a breaking that created a hole on my lower right. Its presence was liberating and unobtainable. The routine was countlessly continued without thought and prejudice.

It was an obligation.