sharing the evolution of my thoughts as i perceive the world

the drought

It was once and never again

lights blue and midnight cold

I strolled

every now and then

seized my heart in blindfolds

Wide open though, my capturing lens,

beholder of eyes that refuse to sleep

only love to weep and muse

about clustered cold, light and ground

Unreal faint luster of midnight blues,

in which I get lost only to be found;

Once and never again,

through the tunnel way back,

I had discovered then

what my heart had lacked:

Reflections on drunken evenings

to uncover and unravel meaning

between the lines of my ink,

feebly bemused at last I sink

in low self-esteem,

perhaps quite extreme,

as choices are left unreflected;

only a glimpse of the imagined before

and a dream back after

Perhaps sharpening my perceptions

might revive

the lost passion and drive

I so pensively held

before vacant went my head,

devoid of even words to describe my drought,

denuded of emotions to portray even petty thought;

my present is but an array of memories I distort,

to what then must I resort?

Musical notes have long fled my lungs

chirping in flight forevermore,

but words, I swore,

shall eternally echo what I have lifelong bore;

along the breeze down the west coast rocky shore,

within red lights reflected in canal streams,

the dreamy cot by the cottage dream,

from which a white cloth flutters off to yield

a fresh charm by the boundless field

Ecstatic catharsis held on end

and shared fleetingly

with my brief yet valuable friend;

I see now not emotions down the drain,

nor forgetfulness that I disdain,

rather words dispersed

in every passing of a moment held captive in my frame;

For in the midst of that oblivious drought,

I remembered then

that all is once

and never again.



Man longs and longs stretching out to the infinite in thought,

reaching out to the stars behind a telescope searching in the cosmos for hope.

Spiritual seeking hides behind the mask of a scientific quest,

yet all that is godly I detest.

And as science protests,

futility arises to project man’s condition,

in absurdity and rejects man’s volition,

for whether a man of god or a man of truth, gratitude vanishes beyond his youth;

man grows and forgets to smile,

man grows and begins to defile,

all that surrounds and envelopes,

every single mile,

of beauty and animate life;

and so in the face of god lies immoral beings and sin,

in the face of knowledge,


with no remorse beneath our skin.

Modern man, intricate, beautiful animal;

modern man, dissonant flesh and bone,

mind of his own;

out of dust and matter,

abandons lust and he is reborn.

The splendid image he is to become,

when flesh and bone

meet the heavenly throne,

and man and god converge,

arts and scriptures emerge,

to become one and the same,

in a captured frame,

where human is found,

between man and god,

a common ground,

melodies and sounds

of real words profound.

Great men have written,

worse men have killed,

history intermittent,

with wars and arts it was filled.

Noble efforts of those who have preached,

a redundant flow of thought,

an arena where all hearts have fought,

navigate beyond man’s reach,

onto a world of sheep,

a passionless herd,

where no one weeps.

Remember to rejuvenate the child in your mind,

revitalize the color of your eyes

by speaking your heart and hearing it beat

in a fleeting heat

of a fire that never stops,

not even with clocks,

for time becomes a flower which never dissevers its beauty from the hour;

rather glows like a candle in the dark and

grows like your heart,

in a body of art,

and a mind of a child.

And then you will weep,

you will fall in life and

love to the point of tears,

then you will keep,

all pictures of your past;

and fears amid the wind you will cast.

And once you’ve sobbed yourself naked,

on your body you will have painted,

and in your heart,

a fire

that never

sets apart.

real words

It often feels like

Piano notes coming in and out of my lungs

like a little rose sticking out of the mud

on a winter day that is kind of sunny

but not too warm; just light

coming out and through branches of trees half worn out and half resilient after fall and winter’s wind.

Stepping in and out of fringes of immaterial gold;

magic of a massive star and a wooden structure,

gold and silhouettes,

two worlds and a third have met;


think of death that hasn’t come

and life that’s been so numb

yet so gentle

and beautiful

in little things like butterflies that cliché quotes youngsters preach when they don’t know what they’re saying but they say it either way,

for hope,


and eternity.

The denial of death is the mode of our thought

and the fear of it the mode of our lives.

Thirsty for life we drink water and hungry for more

we take food to decay faster

we smoke cigarettes

and to turn it off we drink it away.

If it’s too morbid then its opposite is too overwhelming cause that’s death and the latter is life and there’s no middle it’s 0 or 1.


not like machines yet wired like machines to breathe and survive in the middle of the desert or in the deepest of the oceans where it’s all-dry and air is out, to hold and be held, love and tears are shed.

And all of that with five senses I wonder

what it all would have been had they been a hundred or none.

And so we paint and get tattooed,

sing and listen to songs,

capture moments in faceless pictures and never see them again for it isn’t the memory that counts:

it’s capturing,


breathing in and never out until we blow up and fall again, ceaselessly, into the deepest of the oceans and the darkest of the nights,

where we dance with no sound, make love outside our bodies, and grieve over what’s not lost.

Neurotic, exhausted.

Transient, romantic.

It is not beyond death that I want to live,

but beyond life itself.

What is real is not the wall I lean upon

or the words that I utter and write,

but the fairytales and saints that have walked and praised my feet and not the ground, my mind and not my feet, my heart and not my mind.

A cyclic pull from what’s real and what’s not; and what’s not to what is.

Existence, essence, and a bunch of other words to describe what being is and

call it defined.

The delusion of immortal souls and gravity,

afterlife and space-time continuum,

god and man,

and all is real, yet all is not.

And after god comes love,

not the one in the bible but the one in my bed and in my dreams,

in my red face and my tears,

and a lover to hold it all until she cracks like I did at the knowledge of godlessness,

at the knowledge of my condition, that I too fear and tremble, vanity and emptiness, all disappear.

This too shall pass, but no! I want it to last!

But to ridicule religion and call it a day, and claim that I am a realist is not any better a way; remember, what is real is not.

What I’m trying to say is

if with only five senses and we call things real,

then what about all that we feel?

What about god, he who is felt by man but not by me?

What about that tree or that wooden table that stem from one

like the cloud and the cup of water,

the dust from which I come and the dust to which I return.

Perhaps I am god, or perhaps it is that tree or that wall I lean upon;

remember, what is real is not,

in a heartbeat and an upshot.

A third meditation outside the flow, on the next morning, after a long night dream that flashes in an instant, just as post-birth and pre-death;

perpetual post-traumatic recollections of the spark that ignites for an instant in the dark,

the spark that is me,

that is my life;

intermittent in a time-frame of utter blackness, as pre-birth and post-death.

And it shall wash off in instants as my dream last night,

for time is not only inevitable but also a hoax,

not only symbolic but also real,

and remember what I asked you to remember about what is real: it is not.

I see it not in a clock hung upon a wall, but in the ruins of fall.

I see it not in digital figures continuously changing, as it must, as it is wired to, just like us, but in the wrinkles on my mother’s face and decaying bodies that caskets replace.

I see it not in marked years and feasts and what man celebrates, but in the wistfulness of the end of those days, and the bitterness in all that decays.

I intend not to

escort myself to death.

On the contrary,

to pull myself out of it,

like a little rose

in winter’s wind.

tree of knowledge of good and evil

Is it such a sin

to wonder

what could have been

and ponder

what might become

if under

a sheet of scum,

I discover

a life not numb


I could not understand

why divinity

lies beyond man’s land

and infinity

seized in grips of a father

who in humility

left us all in the gutter

with affinity

to die and kill in his honor


Beyond good and evil

one must

consume all of Eden

not just

the tree of knowledge

but with lust

until one is fallen

to dust

with the leaves of autumn


Inborn thirst for truth

well spent

in fountains of youth

then bent

the arrow of time

we dreamt

of a godly light to shine

heavenly sent

to forgive us our crime

poet’s eyes

to animal is to fantasize
to man, to romanticize
a fanatic must consume
moderate, sparks and fume

victims of transience
eternal fall into silence
nonexistent, nor alive
never again to survive

a reality of distortion
time is but a notion
to grant a little sense
to the world in my lens

and a river of words
to capture in our works
beauty that never dies
seen by the poet’s eyes

to the skies

Doors to numinous

Trails of transformed

Perspectives, numerous


Mourn for tedious

Minds rather uninformed,

Objective still dubious


Embracing rhapsodies

Lost thoughts tied

In grips of melodies


Images of symphonies

As nature last sighed

Sounds of sceneries


Oh grand surprise

That god had died,

Thus is man’s disguise


From dust I rise

To dust I return

Not to the skies

in the sky

From place to place

along the arrow of time

with an ageing face

I disperse in lines

To find home in walls

or amid the flowers

no longer significant

in ambivalence of my powers


To outpace time and space

hold fight in flight, &

seize a speck of grace

of what’s left in sight

Upon walls of a home, or

rotten flowers by the ground

a light-beam or mote of dust

linger upon a world of sound


No father art in heaven,

abandoned thy condition

No scripture or saint

thy canvas thy paint

Thou shalt not kill

for thou shalt perish

Thus take thy will

to love and to cherish

when love wears time

The human life is a mode of existence, an odyssey bound by temporality and an experience of dazzling self-awareness. It is observable that nature evolves in an ironic way, in that it tends to protect itself from itself like a tender rose and its thorns. At the same time however, bees and flowers engage in symbiosis to provide each other with the privilege of survival and preservation. It is incomprehensible indeed, that it is in the nature of things to destroy to preserve, and so death, life, and other necessities, are too humanly rejected. Us humans, we love, feel and grieve; how do we make peace with transience and time if even our soulfully constructed infinities are bound by finitude?

I often argue that it is only within the human life that God can be found, that God is a human thought and construct merely for the catharsis from the burdening self-aware existence; yet to follow the logical causality to the very origin, it must be true that God is without nature, unbound by it, unaffected by time, dimensionless. Then by demonstrating how interactions can only be realized between two existing agents, nature and itself, it is quite unreasonable to have God exist. And if God is to exist, then sadly enough, the ultimate human wish is deceived by the tragic reality: everything existent shall die, and then God too will die.

Man is not only nature protecting itself from itself; but an even grander scheme, man is nature in existential crisis, tending to rather stick itself out of itself. The idea of God is a self-projection of what man might become: as long as man dies, God too will die, and if man is to one day live eternally, outside of time and nature’s forces, he becomes God.

In the past 200 years, the world has been embellished by the touch of the most brilliant minds, minds that have shaken the ground of conviction in the direction of progression, a keener genre of preservation. It is no coincidence that the delusion of having an interacting creator of the universe that is outside of nature is in a process of demolishment. It is no coincidence either, that within this quick progressive preservation, ideas have arisen to suggest that God is not detached from nature; rather, God is nature.

Soon enough, as soon as man grants himself all that is needed to constitute the characters of God, “He” will once more stick out of nature, and achieve boundless infinity.

For the time being, we smoke cigarettes and get hit by cars. We make films, write poems, and make art. We love, feel and grieve, because we die, still.

The romantic state is a continuous cycle of love and grief. Love is a mode of life, and life is a mode of existence, so love too is a temporal tangible creed of an unfaithful eternity. When I realize that I am bound to uncertain death and simultaneously feel my attachment to life, I recoil in existential crisis. In a similar manner, when I realize that my love is bound to end just as life to death, and I am profoundly in love with a speaking flower, I recoil in existential crisis, ever more powerful. It is rather melancholic, to mourn over someone not yet lost, yet it is inevitable as I was born mourning over myself.

I have been both impaired and intrigued by love and its escorted melancholy. Why is it that the most marvelous sensation, a catharsis greater than God, truly sensed by all means of perception and beyond, tragic, even before it ends? The perplexing contradiction in the nature of love, in that it is both transient from without but infinite from within, is what makes it the prevailing force of the sadistic human life. “We accept the love we think we deserve.” No love is unaccompanied by tragedy, and that is because no man is deserving of endless love, for he himself is not.

the subject’s emergence 2.0

I have come to realize the gravity of our subjectivity and the confines of our reality by our perceptions within every ‘conscious’ encounter, literally. I could not stress more that, relatively, mind surpasses body on some virtual evolutionary scale; however, I could not but doubt what the mind muses about. To elaborate, claiming that I am mind and not body is erroneous for the mere fact that my mind (essence) cannot be without my body (its existence). What I have failed to comprehend in my mindful recollects, is the meaning that men of language set to the word existence, and how it is erroneous to attribute essence to existence in absolute, rather than existence to itself, hence the relativity of existence. I cannot say my mind exists, but I can say that my mind exists within my body, and my body exists upon a rocky planet that harbors life, and then the chain of existence and sub-existence goes on and on until uncertainty is met; until we are left meditating over oceans of ceaseless debates that have emerged only from human fallibility and a struggle to define, describe, and attribute the essence of anything to the existence of everything, in absolute. Therefore realizing the ability to doubt, and realizing the absurdity that envelopes, I could not but submerge reality in skepticism, a false-hearted arena that bogs the mind and sets forth ‘logical’ solutions that are not satisfactory to being a subject. When man falls in skepticism, he is indulged in a self-fight activity in that the subject can never become objective, and that the absolute is merely an idea or conception of what man wishes to become: beautiful, objective, immortal, free, perfect, absolute, God. These are notions that are thought of and brought up in man’s ascetics on an almost daily basis, inasmuch as man lives by them, and cannot reject them; because to doubt radically and question the self’s purpose in a purposeless universe, is fatal for man who weeps, hurts, dies and loves.
Then, to doubt the mind that doubts, to push reason to the furthest stretch, is a scheme of thinking that is not on the basis of questioning the creator of the universe, but questioning creation and its purpose, the validity of existence itself, and the validity of the absolute, way before the validity of God and man’s fate.

To spare the intellectual anguish, Descartes’s demonstration of radical doubt would suffice; but what I am after is not the endless doubt, for the outcome is futile if one’s will is far from self-destruction, rather hooked on self-understanding and preservation. I am rather after the fact that even Descartes, the radical skeptic, came to halt at a conclusion that is, “I think therefore I am”, which is no less subject to doubt than the idea of God itself, for even that could be doubted furthermore, but it is far beyond human actuality to be radically skeptic of anything “absolute”. It is indeed necessary for survival of self and sanity to halt at a point of, not acceptance, but admittance of our folly in the search of the absolute, the admittance of our fate, the only truth man can know; man weeps, man loves, and man dies.

For even radical doubt of everything and the absolute is an exertion to grasp what man wishes to become; however, to admit human actuality is the first step to become what we want to become inasmuch as to admit that man is not free, is the first step to freedom, and to admit that man does not know truth is more truthful than any notion man lives by. I once came across a statement I truly appreciated, it is that man falls victim to his own grammar in that the verb (the act) is to be preceded by a subject (the actor), and the error lies in attributing specific acts that man cannot himself commit, to greater actors, such as, God (absolute).

Correspondingly, in our efforts to immortalize, to become absolute: we write, we philosophize, we paint; we produce.

Beauty is thus attributed to the limit of man’s production and effort; what we find beautiful is what we cannot produce and cannot grasp with our five senses, and why we find it beautiful is the inability to be as beautiful, or to be artisans of such “perfection”, and here is where the concept of the absolute perfection arises from: when nothing more aesthetic can be actualized. The universe is perfect, it is the “grand design”, for as long as it is the only universe we know of, it is the only design, it cannot but be perfect and the same can be said of all that man claims to be perfect. However, as long as the validity of existence itself lingers as is, it is erroneous to claim perfection upon anything; it is rather a conceptualization of a possible better, so then absolutely nothing is perfect, rather what is perfect is only relatively perfect. By the same token, nothing is absolute; rather what is absolute is relatively absolute, only for he who ponders upon the absolute. Just as God exists for he who believes in “him”, and humbly does not for he who does not believe in him.

The subject’s emergence is thus the realization that in the dominion of the absolute, man is not. It is the act of stepping out of the illusion of man’s purity, in the admittance that man is not pure, he is one step closer to purity, in that he weeps, loves, and dies.

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