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.

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.

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.

Burnt Skin

I went to an institution to submit documents. The sun was warm. I saw people loitering around the door where I am exactly directed to, in a perfect line. I knew that I was late... and I forgot my finances.

I went around and saw an old comrade to ask on the whereabouts of this setting. Safe with a green umbrella, he tried animating distances by lapping around the building we were in. I was feeling the radiation and heat from the sun was too much, but I still resorted to being near my comrade as the entirety was foreign to me. Strangers were animating themselves around with the assurance of their own progress. He started to point towards the north where a Buddhist temple resides. Still, I did not get the direction he was motioning so we decided to walk further. Then we saw two of our unlikely comrades coming in from an dark underground staircase and motioned that we needed a ride. I did not get the verbal agreement, but I felt confident. It was uncertain if I made it through the ordeal.

I was home. I felt that the skin on my arms were burning - they were scorched black. Debris of my skin were falling. Thinking of the the pain was unbearable as I was starting to feel it, but the expression benign.

I woke up. I was sleeping on my favorite red sheets and saw on the other side of the window bare the same color, despite a different being settling in there. I woke up, but I can't move. The television was showing animated comics to cover the other vignettes I must not notice. I woke up. I was sleeping on blue sheets. I got a hold of the blue net I was hiding and covered a tunnel developed on the side of the room. I felt fear, but I didn't dare to elaborately sense it. I wished, but I couldn't wake up thrice more. The whiteness of the room was blinding, my eyes were repeatedly retracting my view.

Alarms

We were homeless.

We tried to stay around the corners of a cemented wretched corridor, away from nature, away from surreality. I settled to stay beside a wooden door with red batteries beside it - as if a warning, as if it was forbidden to explore. I lingered to observe this bizarre existence. Across the door was a shabby home where a huge family resides, but it was the only one closest to nature. Despite its apparent poverty, it was healthy, soiled and it smelt of rain. The earth was stinging and the winds were banging their wooden window. They sat silently and slept freely covered with filthy tattered blankets. I saw their door opened and closed abruptly.

I knew it was a new day.

I stayed on my settling, unpeaceful. The red batteries were lit and I anticipated its explosion. But it didnt; it only made a sound striking as an alarm. I evacuated and went into the left and broader side of the setting with my own family, afraid of witnessing this consequence. This inevitable apprehension.

A cat and a man came in from the catastrophe to start investigating. I felt like a criminal and borrowed my mother's perfume, sprayed it on the entirety of my body so that I wouldn't smell the same. The cat asked each of the evacuees before they left. Then it started running and it captured me, taking me with them.

We ended up inside the door. The soil was stinging in the vacancy - they were keeping what could be left of the natural. I was hanged on the door as they started mentally torturing me. I told the truth, but there was another alarm and they ran. I shook myself off and entered another door inside. I saw whiteness and a machine. Seated beside it was a man, who beamed and smiled, acknowledging the fact that he saved me. A comrade came in from another door I've been and smiled as well. Then there was another door way out to the corridors where two other comrades entered. We decided to ease our hunger.

There was a fancy industry outside. Inside, pink laces and gold were everywhere. I wanted a beautiful cake of cheese and sandwich. I realized my mother was working there and asked me what I wanted. I repeated my preference once more. Then it was taking too long. I had the sudden urge to drift away from sanity. When it came, I devoured everything.

My mother and I went out and saw the death of the outside, of nature, of the sea. Two islands were seen where the only industries remain, heavily protected. We were overpowered.

The Wounds that Heal

It was the perfect scenery. It was the highest order of the waters; yet it was still and dying. The sunset was cool in all its probable shades and the boats were dancing gently. I witnessed it in pain of constraints, the filth of the room building all over my being. The glasses mistreated my pleasure and I couldn't find my memory. So I cut my hair.

I disengaged myself from this old setting. I swam to the other side of the swamp and saw chickens running away sensing my existence. I did not grew weary and I wandered. It was then that I saw the luscious greens and a tree, stricking with its incompetent heigh and nonetheless powerful presence. I did not dare touch it.

As I walked around the remains, behind all the I have seen was a broken molded wall. I sighted inside a beautiful garden of flowers and it was filled with flying bees above. There was a bridge on the left side of it, grassed and wealthy, as if seducing my will to cross and get inside the old house.

I tried crossing the garden, but the bees attacked me. They did not sting, however, they tried passing through my solid body unsuccessfully. I felt their push on the side that I could not see. It was unfortunate that I did not have the chance to see the old house.

Aratilis

Naghahanda ang katauhan sa magaganap na paglaya ng hangin ng kabihasnan. Nasira ang katahimikan nang magsimulang tumakbo ang mga bata, naghahanap ng kalayaan, gahaman sa pagiging bata. Malinis ang probinsiya, ngunit nasaksihan ko ang pagkayamot nito sa sariling kalagayan.

Bilang sentro ng lugar, sinipa ng isang bata ang puno ng aratilis, daan upang malaglag ang mga maliliit na pulang prutas nito. Nagtakbuhan silang muli sa iba't ibang direksyon habang nagmamasid ako sa gilid, nauubos ang lakas sa kanilang eksistensiya. Nang mapuno ng gumugulong aratilis ang lupa, naranasan kong magutom at hindi maiwasang mainggit dahil wala akong karapatang sumali.

Pinulot ng mga bata ang ilang aratilis. Walang tigil. Pinagkakain nila ito, kapansin-pansin ang kanilang kaligayahan at kainosentehan, walang kaalaman sa aktuwal na paggawa.

Nawala ang lahat. Hindi ko na maaaring pulutin ang mga nahulog na aratilis kaya't sinipa ko ang puno upang makatikim. Sumakit ang paa ko nag-antay ako ng kaganapan. Nalaglag ang isang malaking aratilis, sobrang laki na hindi ko kayang ubusin. Ni hindi ko man lamang nalasahan ang katamisan. Hindi ako nakakain at sadyang nawala ang kabihasnan.

Decoding Ends

The aliment was neither ready nor fresh
it was cureless to wait with quasi-aching
disengaging the limit to madness from liberation
however the time was boundless
aligned to the accepting force
where antagonism is not the other side of fairness
there was a toxic malfunction making the grounds weary
of stepping being unbecoming
accompanied by peculiar spirituality
taking response to disconnected discipline
the story was invalid and inevitable
I tried to sit through the ordeal of wanting and needing,
the table projecting the ineptness of its uselessness
but the living remorse was greater than the disposition
then my generation went foul.