question mark

  

on accomplishments

I once thought the mastery of a discipline to be  a noble pursuit. Today, the contrary resonates. The fate of the Tower of Babel and the words of King Solomon, all is vanity, seems to portray this “noble pursuit”. Nothing remains.

If it seems, it only seems so. The ends of accomplishments is yet to come. Until that day, one labors and guards day and night. The soul builds its own throne. Pride flowers within. But just when the petals are vibrant and the morning star makes it seem so alluring, it will wither. And if anything remains: only history. The story of what I believed to be a noble pursuit to be meaningless toil. A mere repetition of history.

hypocritical words

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying. (1-4)

-Robert Herrick, “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time”

I’m afraid, very afraid of what is to come… It’s true that I will one day become fertilizer for daffodils. This body is on a clock. Each tick draws me closer to that moment of death, a non-being, un-able. (Yet not nothing, for whatever I do in this world of extension is left behind).

At the confrontation of death, I change, or perhaps even repent. The indirect experience of death gives birth to the revelation of the meaningless of the self. The future – the continuity of the self – is no longer a concern. But the consciousness’ attention begins to dwell on the present. A paradigm shift from life to its verbal form – to live; to live a given moment to the fullest; to savor; to gather one’s rosebuds while one may.

still dreaming

I’m old enough to know true love doesn’t exist

I should know no destined soul mate exists

it’s all a fairy tale

I know

Yet some part of me still hopes

like a child

still dreaming of lasting love

a simple law

Hopeless, are the labors of gathering and storing bread for tomorrow. Futile, are the endeavors of the sustenance and advancement of one’s being. Meaningless, for their offspring are mere food for maggots. 

Yet, he who is apathetic and lethargic to watch the sun go by brings destruction upon himself. He who wastes precious hours into ticktocks drips drops of poison with every tick. The static is the equivalency of death, the annihilation of oneself, no different to a motionless river that depletes itself. 

The toiler, the idler share a common fate; for the world was weaved in such manner: that only when one breathes out, one can breathe in – and only when one breathes in, one breathes out. One lives, as one gives in to this principle. And one hopes, as one endlessly pours out. 

pieces of the past

morning melody

some nights…

happiness (January thirteenth)

7 am. I’m spending my early morning at CoffeeBytes. I finished my ham and cheese on a blueberry bagel. I sip on my white chocolate flavored steamer. In my other hand, a novel. But why the excitement? I can literally feel my heart pound and adrenaline rush. A simple morning, yet my body somehow learns to seize and enjoy every second of it, physiologically.

Although I’m lead to give some sort of explanation –  a rational one – it won’t be necessary. In fact, an explanation will kill this very experience. It’s like explaining love as a chemical reaction in the brain; it degrades the actuality of reality. Some things in life are better unexplained. Simply experienced. Remembered. Cherished.

degrees of the soul

Within Seoul – a city I would never visit if it weren’t for my family – I found momentary happiness. The appropriate amalgamation of the Autumn breeze, sunlight reflected off ambiguously modern buildings, and Queen’s classic rock lit a rare smirk. My heart had never felt so light walking through the city of masters and slaves of work. The norm was to see pain within the eyes of Seoulians; man or woman, young or old, everyone was out working (or studying) for one reason alone: to get by each day in the competitive society – survival. And yet, this moment, for once, my thoughts drifted from invisible-shackles towards the clear blue sky. I found myself nodding my head to the music beating through my headphones.

Alas, indeed the joy was ephemeral. Seconds later, coerced.

I believe my conscious-loathing unconsciousness to be the culprit. An army of vultures circled above, hungry ones prowling for that hint of happiness. Then the mist of darkness crawled over like a pack of dementors. Haze-black nimbostratus clouds conquered the realm above as if I was the only man standing in the city, mercilessly pulling the strings of my soul, fiber by fiber, until those strings that pulled my cheek and eye muscles were dissipated into the unknown darkness…

Or perhaps, it’s this. A demon dwells within me. A fiend sly and wise enough to hide its existence with stealth, tortures and torments with strokes of his dark archaic brush. He must be Lucifer’s counterpart. The dark artist fills his palette with his own prime colors: abhorrence, apathy, anxiety, depression, lust, fear, and of course his favorite, feeling-of-emptiness. Throughout the history of humanity, he roamed to seek and puppet with innocent souls that craved art and literature…

As I write, I can sense that devil in me dispersing to the corners of my soul, craftily placing his brushes and palette to complete his perfect crime: to convince that it has always been my ego and my suicidal unconsciousness… But even the unconsciousness closes its window. It whispers, it’s all an absurd imagination, too much Frankenstein and Dante…

Damn. It must be the city. Seoul… But I see no exit.