The Days of The New

                The advent of sleep hung on his head. The lack of stimulants stumbled across his tired body. Illness plagued his chest and back. The pain of suffocating slowly lingered. It was not the night of nights and he was sitting across his blank screen. He was waiting for something to emerge from the mesh of words that crisscrossed his thoughts ever so quickly. Mumbling musings of an old tale, he could keep himself in this state for eternity. There was nothing to attend to.

She came up to him sleepily from the bed. Taking the time to give him a loving embrace from the warmth of her bodice, she kissed him on the cheek as the cigarettes burned endlessly on the ashtray beside him. Once more, she whispered in his ear the words that would always convince him to leave the illustrious state of dullness. The gray walls echoed the flawed words of the music that emerged from the speakers of the computer.

“It’s all the same. Once again.”

He kissed her back, slowly taking the time to lock lips with her. There was no tongue for it was sweet and not passionate. It was bleak but not meaningless. It was soft. She understood his state, so close to an epiphany of sorts that would eventually cause him to write another masterpiece. Disturbed by the physical realm of reality, his link to the alternative mental truth was severed.

It was another day, another musing, another mindless run of the mill scenario, another empty passing of time and life. Breaking from a habit that emerged every year, taking up the three months of the hottest of the season, it was never quite the same each time. Each time, a longing progressed into his soul, and yet, he wanted the new. He wanted the new, but never stopped wanting the old.

How did she know him so well? He never wondered past the question. He just enjoyed it. He just loved her, regardless. It was not strong, nor was it too timid. The perfection of it all waned reality such that he believed that he did love and at the same time forgot how to. Such was the perfection of the situation.

Another change of music, another change of scene, another change of life’s lessons, another change of dreams. A fling of jealously for comrades who progressed far into the future, while his being was of the past, rendered in the present, and only developing slowly into the near future, kept him at bay. He wanted to move up the ladder; fast. It was impossible due to the constraints of certainty, but nothing was impossible when done out of love. He did it for love.

Fingers poised at the keys, he typed out his work, his heart, his passion. He brewed it from the depths of the empty nothingness that kept him awake at night. He mixed it in with the slight sweetness of life’s little joys. All held together by the porcelain walls of text, the recipe was just right. There was no creamer to soften the strength of the piece. There was nothing to soften the blow of the veracity of existence. Verily, the facade was no more a veneer of human narcissism. Emerged in the black mixture was the visage of life. It was all quite real to the taste however perpetually false to the flavour. Bitter.

“Welcome back.”

She whispered as he joined her upon their bed. The chamber of thoughts locked away once more. He kept it safe, hidden, and would only expose silhouettes in the form of words. The sun was nearing its incumbent return to geographical vision, and he closed his eyes. His arms wrapped themselves peacefully and lovingly around her warm body. She huddled in, savouring the vibrant act of love. It was a good night for her, as it always was, being loved by him. It was never a good night for the writer, kept awake endlessly. He laid himself there, eyes open, in thought. There was no sleep for his mind, yet there was peace in his heart. It was a good night for his soul.

Good for change. The guitars sung them a song that granted him a well earned, and hard pressed moment of sleep. The fresh daylight hours had finally arrived, bringing about the false promises of productivity. He could scream out in a frenzied calm, alas he did not. He slept peacefully in the hopes that tomorrow was a fulfilled promise of beauty. Never was it so hollow.
*Inspired by the band “Days of The New”

(c) Anachronic Works 2013

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A Book and A Country

  • Dan Brown wrote fiction. A lot of writers do. It should be taken as fiction, and not offensive. In several notable movies, books, and videogames, America has put some heat on Russia, as well as other countries. You don’t see the other countries complain. They do something about it, or at least be the “bigger man” and not retaliate towards a senseless notion. Think about that, Philippine Government.Complaining is a sign of immaturity, it shows that the person (who complains) is lazy, and simply wants things changed to suit his/her preferences. Doing something about what a person dislikes is more mature, simply because that person becomes the change he/she wants to see. I have learned that the hard way myself. Think about that, Mr. MMDA Chairman.

    If the Philippines does not want an image of negativity to be portrayed, ever, then MMDA better start cleaning up the rest of the country, because I’m sure that a lot of other novels (several of them, I have in my collection of books) have mentioned the Philippines as a rather shabby place. Again, do not complain. Do something about it. Think about that, Filipino populace.

    We can’t all be good guys forever; someone has to be the bad guy for the greater good. I hope Dan Brown is laughing at the Philippine people who are hurt over his novel. I hope he laughs heartily, because I know that I am a Filipino and I will be laughing heartily with him. For this, I write a limerick:

    I write this so they’d understand,
    I curse to not make this so bland,
    You get what you give, and they gave him no rib.
    So there’s nothing for them to demand.

    A book is a true work of fiction,
    But for people with quite little diction,
    They’d rally and fuss, and sometimes they cuss,
    Cause’ they feel that they’re being picked on.

    The truth is that they are such assholes,
    Who complain about being called assholes,
    They’d rally and fuss, and sometimes they cuss,
    ‘Cause they do what’s expected of assholes.

    I write this because I’m afraid,
    For a country that’s been so depraved.
    With leaders like shit, and a faith that sucks dick,
    We’re the prostitute that never gets paid.

    I know that my limerick sucks,
    For many who do give a fuck.
    Wait till you see, there’s nothing wrong with me.
    Even you’ll be afraid to cluck.

    A good man had written a rhyme,
    It hurts your pride, even mine.
    I come from a place, that even I can disgrace,
    The proud country that’s dragging behind.

    A good man had written a book,
    The Filipino people it shook,
    I hope that with me, he is smiling with glee.
    For the offenses that everyone took.

     

    * ALL COMMENTS ARE NOT MEANT TO INSULT, THEY ARE JUST COMMENTS.

So I Had A Reason To Die

     He worked hard. It’s been long, and almost too long for that matter, but finally after years of dedication to his task, after all the research, after all the trouble, chaos, ups, downs, and everything in between he had finally completed it. Some of them called him crazy, some of them called him a fool. He’d lost several lovers and loved ones to this tragically chaotic nightmare of a reality. He had lived through the loss of so much that he knew that life was no longer worth the wait. They’d grown tired to the death of hearing his troubles and sorrows. Was it too hard to lend an ear to a colleague, much more a lover, or a relative? All his loved ones had departed in various ways and now he was alone. Once more in the silence of his lips he screamed his mind, but not for long. What was the point of life, should he simply live without creating so much as a minute mark on humanity, much less his own loved ones? Soon it would be over. He needn’t wait long. Not for long.

     It was there, at last. A fully grown creature. It was so familiar that it surprised him to see the minuscule differences he had never seen before. He, himself, had scars now but this strange Figure that stood before him didn’t. It wasn’t alive long enough to live throughout the lonely hell he had been through, and hopefully It wouldn’t have to. It didn’t have loved ones just yet. No one to hurt and no one to hurt him, with the inborn human insensitivity. No one to lose and no one to lose him. Completed, and perfect, with all it’s imperfections and all it’s lack of grievances. It was hard finding a surrogate mother for this creature; this Figure. She’d have to give her own life to create this abomination of science and humanity.

He was surprised when she accepted his offer. Out of so many candidates he’d extended the offer to, including some of his closest friends, she was the only one who accepted. A distant acquaintance, not even a friend, would devote herself to his work. Grateful for it, he would take care of her; feed her, clothe her, and let her live around the lab for quite some time, until the birthing. A courtesy, at least, or so he would say. Just until the birthing, then she’d be gone. It started simply, the two of them consistently working around the laboratory; she helping him with whatever she could. She wasn’t a genius, but he didn’t need one. He just needed a surrogate. She’d often times cook for him as he furiously masturbated, collecting samples of himself for testing and improving. When he wasn’t masturbating, himself, he would have her do it in front of him, as to achieve the perfect combination of sperm and egg. She was religious with regards to her tasks. Then came the time and throughout the insemination, he held her hand. Soon enough, the months flew by, and he took care of her. Every nitty-gritty need and want, he provided. Before she’d die, it was only decent for him to at least make her life a little more happy. A courtesy, at least, or so he would say.

     She did, of course, die. Giving birth to a fully grown man wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to do on the planet. Nevertheless, he took note of her efforts and sacrifices; meticulously jutted them down into his notebook. He did this because nobody loved him, enough, at least. Nobody cared, and he wanted to pass the bill up, to someone who he knew for sure, could handle things a lot better. That seemed a logical a reason as any. A few genetic tweaks solved this issue, although the allotted time it took for such was years. It was maddening. His funds which supposedly came from the University and Scientific Community, although meant to be devoted to science, were merely devoted to his own selfish pleasures. Not that this Figure was no feat of science but he had it all planned out. No one was to know what occurrences had truly transpired. They were merely going to be informed that the Project had failed, along with the surrogate mother. Soon this would be signed off as another top secret scientific failure under Government Files to be stashed away into the dark abyss of their storage, just as he was going to be, soon enough.

     It was almost finished. All he needed to do now.was to wake the Figure. Placing a hand on the It’s shoulder, he shook it a little, waking It from It’s preliminary slumber.
     “I made you. You already know this. You know what to do, and you know how I did this. You are me, and I am you, but I must leave this world, because there can only be one of us left. You know why I did this. A simple reason, a simple solution that took long to achieve. I made you, so I’d have a reason to die.”

     The Figure nodded, and took the scalpel from the nearby table. He smiled, a tear in his eye, as the Figure slit his throat. The blood gushed, soaking his lab coat. He knelt down, as the Figure held him in a bloodied embrace. The tiles were now covered with a puddle of life and death. The birth and demise simultaneously occurring. It was the magic of science.

Just before he drew and exhaled his last breath. The Figure spoke, a small set of sentences. Five to be exact. Just long enough for him to hear and understand It’s perspective on all of this. Just long enough for a quick lamentation before his departure.

“My dear Father, you have forgotten to see, that your supposed lack of love was merely life’s trickery. You failed to see, Father, that the love my Mother had for you was tremendous, such that, she would have given birth to you, yourself, sacrificing her life, if only, to please you. I know, dear Father, that this is a mistake that I will not make for you have born me well. I am your spawn, Father, I am you. Thank you.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling for the last and first time. The Figure stood up, soaked with the red life that his Father had neglected to appreciate. Looking around, It saw the predicament, and though It knew that there was someone out there to love It, It couldn’t help but cry for the loss of the man who loved himself too much, such that It was spawned out of hatred and contempt for this world; this reality. It lost the only man it would ever love. That was the It’s reality, and slowly, It began to slit It’s own throat. The blood once more filled It’s chest, It’s small piece of undergarment clothing, It’s legs, then the floor. It would all be over soon. It needn’t wait for too long. Not for long.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

Hard To Find

It was her devilish smile. He’d caught a glimpse of her as she walked through the door, the afternoon sun and the spray of the open wind from the beach birthing into this cafe a goddess, of sorts. Her red trench coat stood out, instantly catching the eye of many a man. The cafe’s door chime rang as if announcing royalty, simultaneously, her red stiletto heels clicked as if calling each man’s attention. She hung her coat, revealing a rather obscure orange dress. Bright colors weren’t exactly his thing, but hey, who would complain when the colors were accompanied by a nicely pressed body. Looking down at his horizontally striped red and white shirt, he checked if he was fit enough to talk to her. He could almost see his bones rupturing the cotton fabric of his long sleeved shirt. Adjusting his peculiarly circular glasses, he stood up, scratched the hair underneath his, also peculiarly striped, bonnet. He gazed at her as she sat there by the counter, ordering her drink. It was a coffee shop, after all, and there was nothing to feel relatively uneasy about. He picked up his bag; he could always simply disappear into the crowd, should his dignity be compromised.

“Hey, there, ma’am. You seem familiar. Have I seen you somewhere? In a film? You look like someone I’ve seen in a film. I, myself, characterize myself in books.” He spoke with his squeaky voice that shook. He sat down next to her, dropping the messenger bag on the floor. There she went again, flashing her devilish smile at him, as she turned her head away. She slid the ashtray from her end to center between them, followed by her pack of Pall Malls. Offering him a cigarette, she took one from the pack and lit it. He took one.

The wind from the shore blew into the open-deck cafe, swinging the chimes and curtains. The aroma of saltwater and coffee proved an excellent conductor for the interaction of two people. Such was the case at that moment. They let a little silence pass, as they took the drags slowly, staring out into the beach ruckus. Children playing, seagulls flying, and all sorts of poorly chosen items filled the sand, and there was barely a walkway. Several people sat on lawn chairs, reading, and there was a group that played Frisbee. Above the clutter of life further down towards the shore, they sat, with subtle jazzy music emerging from the speakers of the cafe. As the moment passed, she turned and finally deigned to talk to him. He had been waiting in disturbed silence. She turned to face him with her legs crossed, and leaned forward, revealing a little cleavage.

“I am Carmen San Diego, and you are?” She puffed smoke between her Latin accent.

“Wally, or as some people call me, Waldo, Odlaw.” He said, taking the lighter.

“So, why is it you’re here, talking to me?” She played a subtle, yet distinct pout.

“Why does anything even happen?” He played a smile that seemed bittersweet.

“Avoiding the question, changing topics, and you left your drink on the other table. You like me, don’t you, Mr. Odlaw.”

“Well, someone’s full of herself.”

“Well, that just proves it. I am right.” She said, using her cigarette to accentuate the point.

“Just because I said certain things in that order, doesn’t mean that I have a hidden plan of sorts.”

“You just keep making this harder and harder for yourself to disprove.” She said with a wink.

“Alright, so you’re right. What of it?” He said, dropping his hands calmly on the tabletop.

“Let’s cut the verbal foreplay here, huh?” She said, uncrossing her legs.

“Alright.”

“You have, more or less, until the end of that cigarette stick to make me like you. If you fail, you’re gone. No second chance. Deal?”

“Deal.” He said, taking a very deep drag that finished most of the cigarette off.

“I have a feeling you’re a tough kind of girl to find.” He said, stubbing out his cigarette.

“I feel the exact same way about you.” She replied, stubbing out her cigarette.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

Bus Stop 47

As the tide rose and fell from the shore, off the beach, the road was empty. The rainy season always brought the public farther. The small Parthenon of a bus stop stood above the background in a small but shimmering light. Lightning always made it look scary to the children who would wait there just to get home. The small light that made it visible to the bus drivers always flickered, casting disturbing shadows against the vulgar images that lined the plastic advertisement walls that never lit up. The seats were made of cold metal, the dotted kind, and were almost icy in the late September rain. There was a storm looming off the coast, the local newspaper read, as it lay on the moist seat, absorbing the liquid. Across the street, small buildings lined the blocks, revealing endless shadows of people across the distance. Further back were the city’s larger buildings, a district of vice, a system of lights, and a cement land that stretched far across the eye, yet made a simple dot upon the map. New York at it’s finest.

Picking up the pace, a mother and son walked towards the stop. She was holding up an umbrella, trying in vain to secure her unruly son. The boy was nearing his teen’s and yet, he acted as if he were a little child, pulling away at times, dodging raindrops to the tune of his heart’s desire.  Taking time off to rest, the mother sat her son down on the bench, handing him an iPad to play with. This was her usual ritual, ever since her husband had left her for another woman. Work, pick up the boy, and commute home. The mess of life was what it was then and now she was determined to find courage and push through it.

A man stood across from her, as she closed the umbrella, shaking it to lessen the amount of water that had accumulated on the nylon surface. He smiled at her as he lit his pipe. It was strange for her to see such a well dressed man at this hour, checking her wristwatch to be sure it was 9pm. He was wearing a hat, to match his black coat that was moist from the rain. His black and white leather shoes were covered with mud or sand from the nearby beach-like area, and it seemed as if he had just taken a walk. He doffed his hat and spoke,

“How sad, the children of today, lost in a world of screens and sharp tunes. Always on the phone, they will never know the joy of a simple walk in the park.”

She hesitated, wondering  if he had simply spoken to himself. He turned to face her son, and watched with a smile and a light chuckle at the boy’s distracted state. She steadied herself, ready to fend off the man with her umbrella should he try to take the iPad. She had saved up a whole 3 months worth of salary for it and she wasn’t about to lose it. He glared at her sweetly with his green eyes, his face partly covered in stubble. He smiled. For a man who seemed to be in his late thirties, he was quite handsome.

“Don’t worry, I won’t take it. I have no use for such an uninteresting device.”

Summing up some courage to speak, although she knew she was at least ten years younger than he was. Aggravated by the man’s judgement of her use of 3 month’s work-pay, she opened her lips,

“What do you mean uninteresting? I’d bet that device is capable of doing much more than you, sir.”

“Still, a human mind is more capable of coming up with more suitable ideologies for this world.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?”

“Yes. What do you mean?”

“I mean, that, with such a seemingly smart boy, there, he would be more capable of at least entertaining himself without the use of the device.”

“Well, he isn’t. Can’t you see, he has a problem with his mind?! You don’t have to judge him!” She raised her voice, gesturing towards the boy who was still undisturbed by the awkward conversation.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend.” The man said, taking a puff from his pipe. The small flames drew the sides of the pipe clearer, right before fading away again into the black pit.

“Alright, but don’t you go judging people just cause.”

“Indeed, I am not one to judge. I merely implied that such a device would be a waste for a blossoming child’s brain. However, in any case, I had caused you offense, I sincerely apologize.”

“Hey, you’re the one in the corporate world here. We’re all working stiffs, trying to pay bills and living off our mundane jobs.  Judging by that suit, you look like you’ve worked in a bank or in some law office somewhere. I’m a single mom, and this boy here’s all I’ve got, now you just shut up about him!”

“He who speaks without modesty will find it difficult to make his words good. Confucius. You, my dear, had just judged me after you claimed it wasn’t proper to judge.”

“Well…”

“When anger rises, think of the consequences. Again, Confucius.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven. However, would you indulge me, please, in some light conversation?”

“Well… Alright, but as soon as the bus gets here, we’re out, okay?”

“Agreed.”

“Good. Now, what do you wanna talk about, anyway?”

“Well, you’ve opened up the world of business in our conversation, let’s start there.” He said with a sweet smile. The pipe was still smoking as he opened again.

“All things truly wicked start from innocence. Hemingway.”

“Yeah, and so?” She replied, with a slight pout as she lined her umbrella to her legs.

“Business.”

“What about it?”

“That quote summed the entirety of business up.” He looked at the sky.

“What do you mean?” She followed his gaze for a while, then returned her eyes to study his demeanor.

“Well, think about it, it started out as trade, for the benefit of both parties. Dating back thousands of years. It was quite innocent, but nevertheless it has grown into a corrupt monstrosity, ravaging everyone’s daily lives. You see, we are driven by our need to survive, and trade, as it has, simply paved its way across the quarry that is human life.” He said, leaning on the plastic advertisement wall, raising his right knee up to balance.

“Uhh… What?”

“Let’s see if this will help you understand. Our world is built on finance and business. Without it, we are destined to fall short of any of our expectations and die. Right?”

“Uhh… Yeah.”

“Good. Now think about this, what is the innate goal of a business.”

“Trade?”

“Yes, partially. That was what it was before. Now it is simply outwitting the person who trusts you to give something equally important in return, yes?” He looked at her, his eyes intent on driving his point.

“I guess.” She said, taking a quick glance at the boy who was twisting the iPad around in his hands.

“Advertisements. They promise, and yet, they never fail to fall short on their bargain.” He puffed from the pipe.

“Okay.”

“That’s why we have money. It was created to lessen the outwitting, but it, in time, has also failed to do it’s job and has also fallen into the hands of corruption.” He returned his gaze to the starless sky.

“Uh huh.” She nodded, slowly, attempting to understand the discourse.

“What is money worth?” He asked, pointing the tube of his pipe at her.

“Uh… Everything?” She said, raising her shoulders.

“Not necessarily. Ponder on it, and you will see, that money is simply a number, placed on a piece of highly overrated paper. It’s worth is built on the foundation that is gold.”

“You mean, the Federal Reserve Bank?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. The Bank. All our money’s worth is in gold, in that bank. Now, take it back to the old days of trade. What is the sole purpose of gold?”

“Jewelry, duh. Unless you use it’s conducting power.” She said, with a knowledgeable smirk.

“Yes, but it is merely a rare substance. As we can plainly see, copper is the most common of the best conductors of electricity.” He gestured with his pipe towards the wires that loomed above them.

“Okay.”

“Vanity. Our entire empire of a world is built on the sole thing, that is vanity.”

“So, what are you saying; that money is worthless? That everything that we work for is merely a fool’s quest for greed or power?”

“In a way, but who are the fools?”

“Us, right?” She giggled.

“Indeed.” He said, puffing some more smoke, losing the smile. She was irritated, knowing that he thought that everything she had just worked for was worthless, that all she did, that all everyone did was not worth a single thing on this green earth. She soon realized that this man was merely as dark as the weather and that he would not ever last long before falling into poverty and despair. So much for the man’s educated ideas.

“So we are all basically worthless, right? You have the courage to tell people, that everything they’re doing is worthless, juts because you’re rich.” She started laughing, covering up her hurt, to which the boy followed, and as soon as she slowed down the laughter, when the silence returned, the man opened his mouth and said,

“I wouldn’t saythat.” He returned his smile.

“So what are you saying?” She questioned in frustration, her hands in the air.

“All of it is true, yes. But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated. You tell me who said that.” He said with a smile, noticing the bus pull up against the curb.

“So, wait. What is it all worth?” She looked at him, eyes bewildered, her face formed in questioning manner.

“Look at the child, and then find the courage to tell me what it is all worth.” He said. She nevertheless pulled the boy up and along, and he struggled before following and taking a seat in the bus. Taking in his statement, she took the words into thought and sat next to the boy. The boy began shaking, and he mumbled almost unintelligibly,

“Mommy, I’m cold.”

“Oh, I’m sorry honey, I forgot your jacket.” She said with a saddened tone. She cursed herself under her breath for forgetting the boy’s jacket. It was a long trip home, and she would have to stop by the pharmacy for either vitamins or medicine, should the boy have gotten a cold. To her surprise the man now loomed over her in the still bus, with a smile, his pipe gone. The bus driver waited, holding a 5 dollar bill that the man had presumably given him, to stop the bus this long.

“Courage, is grace under pressure.” He said, handing her his coat. He smiled that friendly smile once more and doffed his hat as well.

“Hey, Mack, your five minutes is up man! Next stop folks, stop number 48, Oak street.” The bus driver said with his slang tone.

He stepped out of the bus and re-lit his pipe. Standing there in the bus stop he waved a gloved hand at them, and stepped into a car that was parked nearby. She felt the pockets of the coat as she wrapped it around the boy. A solid feeling came up, and as she pulled it out, she realized that it was a money clip. It had the name Hemingway on it. She turned back to see if he was still there but he had already disappeared into the night. She counted the money. It was worth her 3 months salary. She tucked it in her pocket with a swift and giddy motion.

“What is it all worth?” She mumbled, as she rested her head with a smile, the boy still playing on the iPad. She embraced the child, and joined him in the game, smiling.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

Don’t Hurt Her Bro, She Loves You

Imagine her, the girl of your dreams, your future bride, your Virgil to your Dante, your Anabel to your Poe.
She’d just left you after seeing you for 2 and a half months, saying she didn’t want a relationship.
She didn’t even mention that she wanted to be friends.
She merely said it, “We can still be best friends.” without so much as a hint of sincerity.
You loved her, so you believe her, in the slight hope that friendship may once again bring back the relationship.
Bring back the love.
Bring back the days you’d spent laughing with her.
The ineffable kisses you both shared.
The misanthropy you provided for yourself in exchange for her attention.
It was all you required.
She was your self knitted hat.
She was your gasoline and drive.
She was the guitar you learned to play until you had calloused fingers.
So you let it be.
A few weeks later, you do not speak.
A few months later, you see her and smile, but she loses all trace of you in the back of her mind.
There’s another man, who now catches her eye.
A new flavor of wine that she’d love to try.
A new drug to help ease the sickness of life.
A new path on the map of life.
He is there, holding her hand.
He is there, playing as she cheers from the bleachers.
He is there, reading her to sleep.
It was the novel you wrote for her, it was hers to keep.
All trace of you has been erased.
A formatted hard drive, and it’s an emotionless face.
Then you see her again, and this time she cries.
You talk to her, and comfort her this time.
You walk and talk for a stretch of miles; visiting the past, remembering the smiles.
She feels better, and gives you a hug.
That’s all you’re gonna get, so you leave with a shrug.
You see them together, again, as if they’d never fought.
All the pain dashed away, as if it were a passing thought.
And again, you see her in the middle of the night.
Tears in her eyes, as she struggles to fight.
There he is, walking away, and she’s kneeling on the sidewalk, meters away.
He needs help, and so does she.
So you approach the guy, and you’ll help them see.
You sum up the courage to talk him through.
With a single line, you know what you have to do.
You love her too much to let it go too.
“Don’t hurt her, bro. She loves you.”

* This was written for the Facebook Page “Don’t Hurt Her Bro, She Loves You.”

** Why I wrote this for a Facebook Page was because I was BORED. BORED. So I decided to pour out a little bit of my heart into the page.

*** Here’s the link: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dont-hurt-her-bro-She-loves-you/155903644455335

**** You can find this post on the Discussion Board. As of the time I post this, nobody has deigned to reply to me yet.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

A Toast to The Titanic and to My Dear Ex-Lover

Back when I was a kid, during my days in Canada, I watched the Titanic for the first time, with my cousins Michelle and Steffi, my sister, my Mom, and my Auntie Roenna. It was pretty dreary and the concept was not easily grasped by my mind although I thought I’d already had. With this, I would always wonder to myself why girls in general would cry at movies, especially the romantic ones which were, in my opinion utterly dreary and quite the un-moving and unattractive type, as compared with movies about war and brotherly love combined. Those, and several other insanely awesome sci-fi movies, that I still enjoy and love to this day, to me were worth more than most drama films. With utter nonchalance I dared not disturb them other than to laugh or become annoyed at such a disturbingly silly display of affection towards a simplistic concept that rarely even varied.

I was a regular guy, who was more into fighting, action, sports films and what-nots. I’d never really felt anything for anyone during those early days. With the exception of my first love, Sarah, from my life I would have been the most utterly passive towards drama movies. Luckily, my life did have her, and by the time she had to move away to another country, my expectations and shunning of drama movies had stooped to a negative low. I was beguiled by drama, music, art, culture, dance, paintings, drawings, books, comics, movies, videos, plays. I had joined the glee club back in school (No relation to the Glee Series whatsoever). The moment that I saw her last, reminded me of a movie scene, somewhere in my vast memory of all the movies I’ve watched, in which case I do not recall the title. I was astounded as how real the movies could become if one were to portray it in their everyday lives. If one were to simply walk, talk, and view like the movies, then one would be living a movie everyday without paying a single penny/centavo. It is worth it, if you think about it. You may be caste-d out as weird or odd, but it will make life a bit more vibrant. Some of you would say that this is impossible and that movies are a fictitious shadow of real life, a reflection as some may say, where left is right and right is left. I say however, there is an extent to the fragmented truth that exists within movies, and it is rather large, and more or less appealing to many people, from shallow to deep thinkers alike.

Going back to the movie, I just re-watched it not an hour ago, and I am completely honest about this when I say I cried. A lot, and it always reminded me of a spark which I had carried all throughout my life. When I’d met Sarah, I was an average guy, very strong about things and very numb towards feelings, only capable of expressing it at home or through the pen, unless it was of physical pain with which I would cry at some point of intensity. There were of course, some emotional pains that made me cry to be honest, and my skin is kinda thick. But when we were together, every movie made sense. I had gotten involved with the movies each time I’d watched them, taking the scenes seriously, whether or not they were action or drama. I’d taken things to a whole new level, learning more about life and more about art than I’d ever did. All thanks to her, I’d become creative with my speech, my voice, my music, my mind. I would often times be inspired to create fictional worlds of entertainment and story lines for my action figures when I would play with them, and I would often times act out along with them, running around in my shorts with whatever toys I had at hand. Other times I would simply walk around in a circle, thinking and practically obsessing with story concepts, validations of life, and other godforsaken agendas that older people do not wish to re-live or at some times do not wish to fully comprehend. All because of her, and her ways. I loved her, and I’d cried for months after she’d left. It was a simple case of moving to another country, where I would not see her again, and yet it felt so complex and it dampened my mind long enough to stain my works with thoughts of despair all throughout my high-shool life and up to now. Indeed I’d thought of the many times and the many things I’d done, even those I find foolish and those I regret doing. Well, I realized a lot, thanks to her. I owe her my artistry.

For those of you who are wondering, no, I am not in touch with Sarah, and why is because we had agreed not to, and even though I want to break all form of rank and file in life, and all sorts of agreements we’d made, I still can’t find her on Facebook, nor on Tumblr, nor on various websites. I guess it’s just like Jack and Rose, with the minimal time we’d spent together, it had one of the most maximized effects on my life and how I lived it from then until today. I am drowning in sorrow, bliss, and love, all together and I hope you can bear with me for one last short paragraph.

As I realize it now, I laugh at myself, from years ago, for not pondering enough on this issue and chose to rather let go of it and forget. This turning point in my life signified something great, and I simply wish to raise a glass to the Titanic, and to my dear Ex-Lover, who is out there somewhere. Let’s all raise a glass. A toast! To my dear Sarah, and to the Titanic; may our love never falter, like that of Jack and Rose, and always know, you will always be in my heart and in my works. Indeed I love the both of you dearly, and to you, my dear Sarah, I owe my works.