Love and Roses

This is not a poem.

A petal falls; the rose is red
Did it ever fall?
A second falls; the rose still red
Perhaps it was not needed. 
A third one falls, a fourth, a fifth
Doubt blossoms in their place.
A sixth one falls, and countless more
Why do I still count?
Two are left, then those fall too
Were they ever there?

February Mornings

The soft yarn of red mittens rub against my cheek; a hollow attempt at bringing warmth to the blushing skin against the chill of February mornings. Clouds form with each breath I take, fading as quickly as they came. A rabbit must have tread across the sparkling snow, its footprints the only evidence of its midnight scamper. And those too, are beginning to fade. Sunlight sifts through the veil of trees, dappling the snowy forest floor. Glistening pools here and there trickle slowly into the stream, which snakes through the forest, the ice atop it imperceptible to one's eye. Icicles adorn the branches, preparing for a Snow Queen who will never come. A pile of nuts are strewn across the snow, perhaps dropped by a startled squirrel, frightened by the smiling moon. It needs not worry now, the moon has returned to her tranquil slumber as her brother stands vigil. He reaches his arms out towards me, but I am too far away to be enveloped in his embrace; I reach out and interlace my fingers through his instead.

Magnolia Lane

A songbird sings in the distance, soft melodies drifting over sunlit clouds. The sun is setting in the west and lavender skies blush as the evening wind whispers greetings I will never comprehend. Magnolia trees line the narrow street, their pale velvet petals drifting slowly to the ground. I am careful not to step on them; my shoes too profane to tread upon the sacred blooms. Soft, I tread quietly, soft, the petals fall, soft, the warm light begins to fade as night insects start their song.

Impression of Youth

This is not a poem.

The fervor of the night has yet to fade, 
to cease its manic buzz. 
Counting breaths like counting sheep; 
I have lost count. 
Cars race by on the highway below; 
my heart races faster than them all.
Tic toc tic toc, seconds pass like passing clouds, 
floating past the silver moon.
Shouts and laughter echo, 
in my head and in my mind,
or from upstairs?
Slow down, stop.
The world is at a standstill.
Not a sound from the window,
my mind is silent.
Rushing water, reduced to a trickle,
so are my thoughts.
A dance of bodies, a dance of souls,
is all I can remember.
All trying to taste freedom,
in one night's short hours.

Socrates on Death

From Plato's Apology

"If it is a complete lack of perception, like a dreamless sleep... If death is like this I say it is an advantage, for all eternity would then seem to be no more than a single night." 

Thought

Isn't it funny how easily children say "Let's be friends" but as people grow, saying such things get more and more difficult?

The State of Being

Time and the State of Being

   Time can never be paused, for we are always in motion. We are in a constant state of being, an inevitable, subconscious action. If we were not to be, then indeed we would do nothing, but then we too would be nothing.

The Stillness of Being

    If we could stop all purposeful actions and leave only our state of being, we would be able to see, hear, and feel, so much more. If we were to stop thinking, listening, seeking, and judging, all that would be absorbed into our minds would be everything, for the state of being itself consists of near-nothingness, like a piece of rice paper, and all would flow through naturally, effortlessly. We would be able to experience the beauty of the world as it flows through us, and though we would never be able to capture it, could we truly capture the beauty of life, of the universe, even if we tried? In the stillness of simply being, we would for once be able to forget what goes on inside of us to be aware of the beauty all around us. Indeed, we would render ourselves thoughtless for the time we are solely being, but do we really need to think and process the world to understand it, be aware of it? It is good to be deep oftentimes, but one does not need depth to understand the beauty of a weeping willow, or a dew-covered rose; they simply are beautiful. Similarly, does one need depth to understand a mother's love, to feel the warmth from the blazing eyes and cheeks of young lovers? The depth of the world would make up for the human-conjured depth we would be depriving ourselves of. If we did not try to be deep, perhaps depth would, like the rest of the world, naturally flow into us.

The Fragrance of Spring

    Rain drums its fingers steadily on the shop window. The door opens, a woman in a rain coat lets in the earthy smell of rain. The soft breeze from outside sweeps past her, swirling delicately through my hair. Resting lightly atop one's skin, cool moisture fringed with warmth and the smell of rain; this is the fragrance of Spring.
   
    However, in a city, there are no wildflowers in bloom, no puddles that reflect so clearly the sunless sky, no bed of dew-moistened grass to rest upon. No silence or space to allow one to admire the pale grey clouds that bloom as wildflowers do. There is only this fragrance to cling to, like memories telling of times long past, times when happiness did not seem so abstract.

    And so I cling to the sweet smell of Spring, already fading as the door begins to close. I cling to it as I do to my memories, for both tell of more beautiful times.
   

Quand Il Fait Nuageux

    The sky is pale grey, the sunlight, unable to penetrate the blanket of clouds, casts a muted glow onto the bare branches below. An eerie tranquility hangs in the air and the world is still. The buzz of silence is all that can be heard; indeed, even silence has a sound. Not a bird sings, not a fox trots, I stand in the snow, silent as well. I am as still as the world around me, afraid the slightest movement will awaken the world from its trance.

    But, the world cannot stay still forever; I take a step forward.  

    A bird takes flight, landing on a branch nearby. Its song fills my ears as snow begins to fall. Rays of sunlight filter through thin wisps of cloud as the grey blanket begins to part. The ground is dappled with pale sunlight, shifting, fading, glowing.

    The world has been stirred from its slumber, smiling slowly it begins to move once more.  

Rainwater Tide Pools

    Whispers across a dewy field tell of the morning rain. Rainwater tide pools linger to preserve its memory. Softly trickling, the tide pools begin to empty, soon they too will be gone.

    

    Golden grasses that have long been dormant stir from their sleep in the soft current, as light Spring breezes whisk away the wintry air. Rippling, the surfaces of the tide pools tremble in the wind. Ripples, the breezes of water, coax the grasses to sway, their gentle touch gliding softly over each sleepy blade, not yet awake. Submerged in the tranquil waters, some smile in their sleep, unaware of the waters' silent farewell. 

    With one last caress, one last ripple, the waters recede from the swaying grasses, and the grasses sway no more. Still sleeping in blissful oblivion, they wonder if the memory of the gentle touch of rainwater tide pools was all a dream. 

Solitary Nights

Silence.

    Not a sound can be heard outside my bedroom window. The world is asleep, lost in a myriad of universes that we call dreams.

Click

       clack 
              
               click.

    The rhythmic tapping of keyboard keys, a tiny sound in this large city, sounds suddenly incredibly loud. I pause, ashamed of breaking the tranquil silence. A night breeze flutters through the window, playing with the strands of my hair, inviting the sheer white drapes to join them in a dance. A tree, with its darkened limbs painted in shadows, rustles in the distance, whispering secrets I will never live to understand.

    Indeed, while we sleep the world is ever-watching, coaxing those who cannot yet sleep into peaceful slumber.

    If only I could sleep, but stacks of paper, like glistening snow after a heavy snowfall, lie undisturbed on my table. Dim lamplight reminds me of what I must finish. This is the life of a student. The life of an adult. Of anyone past childhood.

    Few can escape the fate of solitary nights. Yet, perhaps they are a blessing of sorts. Because for one night, we have the world, with its countless stars, sweet crisp breezes, and the taste of fading seasons, to ourselves.

    And it never fails to keep us company.

Leaving Wonderland

"I don't understand why Alice left Wonderland." 

    I like that quote.

    One would have to wonder why she left such a mysterious, beautiful world for a life that I'm not sure if she was happy have. Even if she was happy, would she not be happy in Wonderland? If I were her, I would continue exploring such a vast world where time appeared to hold no meaning. Can you imagine? A world without time. Our society revolves around time; we could not function otherwise.

    That's why dreams are so precious. An adventure that appears to last for hours, weeks, a lifetime even, spans only a matter of minutes or seconds. I wish to return to my dreams. There is no pain, no death, and even the most impossible things can happen. Of course, there are nightmares too, and perhaps to Alice, Wonderland was a nightmare. That is what makes dreams dangerous, dark, and sinister at times. A matter of seconds can instill a sense of fear incredibly powerful and make it appear as though it lasted for an endless amount of time.

    Alice, why did you leave? Were you content with your real life? Why are we often not content with our lives nowadays, constantly craving for adventure, something different? Asking for too much is never a good idea. Perhaps Alice knew too well that life is not always meant for such adventures, and that life's normal, "little"  adventures in comparison, such as discovering a new bookstore, meeting a new friend (or even more than that), are perfectly, wonderfully, enough.

    Would I want to go to Wonderland? Not until I am sure I am discontent with my life right now. Not until I have no one around me who cares for me, nothing around me that I have yet to learn, to listen to, to admire. Not until then. However, we must always remember that there are people who care about us (even if it may not appear to be so), there are things to seen and heard, that there are many things to be fascinated about, not just Wonderland.

    That means, I will likely never want to journey to Wonderland, much less prolong my stay. Alice, I think, maybe, just maybe, I understand.