Graceful slithering limbs caress the skin across my back. Pulsing and pulsating, its warmth lingers beyond dusk. I lay awake sleepless, cherishing every moment of a memory fast sublimating. Lucid with an expiration date.
His breath on the back of my neck was intoxicating like the first puff of that nicotine curse. Addictive and prying on my impulsive nature, one I have successfully subjugated before his arrival. Then I failed, and what a sweet sweet failure it was. Him, me, and that soiled blanket we borrowed. Beneath a ceiling of cosmic lights undulating for our amusement, across the alpine lakes with their sweet and salty breeze. I take a deep breath, a lungful further until I almost faint.
It was the sunrise that woke us. Blindly in its comforting heat, that enlivens our shared souls. We clasp hands in that endless moment when the whole world meant nothing, and we were the whole world. Complete and uncorrupted and consumed. The leaves crisply break beneath our entwined bodies, desperate to remain in that perfect embrace.
Yet I remember. That memory that remains unwritten, waiting for the day that it too will find my experience. When memory becomes reality, and reality becomes recollections.
It was morning. And I had to awake.
i hate love stories
I hate love stories.
How they suspend reality into a misty blur of emotional exhilaration, dipped in sugarcoated contagious thoughts leaving the most intellectually acute melting into senseless abandon. How the most psychologically sound becomes irrationally affected by the slightest subtleties of the object of affection. How the emotionally stable frolic in wanton meanderings amidst myriad possibilities of a future written in the winds.
I hate love stories.
How it makes one wonder and blush in earnest hope of the intangible possibilities of ardor adulation. How the now recedes into a cacophony of possibilities against a future founded on promises and saccharine inspirations. How pragmatism is thrown haphazardly in the face of an emotional attachment against the harshness of a subculture’s competitive veracity.
I hate love stories.
How it makes one hope that love is a most achievable concept in an existence slowly devoured by responsibilities and bounded across the routinary definition of one’s comfort zones. How it elates the weary soul despite the apparent grimness of a cumbersome consciousness he inhabits. How it professes a contented happiness beyond security and sanity. How it encapsulates the yearnings of the flesh in a methodology transcending physiological machinations, bordering on the spiritual. Bridging the distance of two hearts beating in syncopation. Euphoric. Selfless. Unabashed.
I hate love stories.
How it succeeds beyond the grave and gross, the crass and catastrophic, the solitary and sporadic. How it is unbounded by the nuances of time, place and distance. How it is unencumbered by the necessities of money, commitment and compatibility. How it can move the worst into an epiphany beyond comprehension, and the indifferent into emphatic cooperation. How it can easily sublimate the socially inept and emotionally scarred into agreeable and tolerable. And even into amiable and optimistic.
I hate love stories.
How its graceful duality defies logic and experience. How its bittersweet seduction succumbs even the most perennially inauspicious, triumphant against the doubtful and jaded. It wields its dagger steadily, piercing even the most sullen hearts into ecstatic reincarnations. It moves without reason, yet the plot becomes its own mastery of meaning. Because possibility is its recurrent mantra. And this too shall come to you, despite lack of faith. Or passive yearnings not actualized. It’s a humanity served in a language undeniably bespoke by situations, yet will unfold tumultuous times into positivism. It holds its grip even in the coldest of hearts, that the frigidity of solace will soon make way for the rebirth of spring and a blossoming romance.
I hate love stories.
How they tell of victory over circumstance, and completion beyond shortcomings. How it makes even those seemingly devoid of affection giddy in anticipation for a most pleasant conclusion. How it creates a spectrum of scenarios yet will undoubtedly lead to the merging of hearts. How, in its anarchy of twisted storylines create a melody resoundingly quaint. Identifiable. Succinct. Absolute.
I hate love stories.
Because their unrealistic, preposterous at times, vaguely senseless, yet convincingly addictive. Because I can't reason my way around them, even when the script is legible from a mile away, or the plot blatantly apparent, or the characters porous to the point of frailty.
Because they envelope me in a warmth that awakens a dormant oscillation; blushing, hopeful and cheesy. Because they create a welcomed confusion that surprises the most jaded. Because they always leave me feverishly smiling through misty eyes. Silently giggling like a crushing schoolgirl, with a Cheshire cat grin plastered on my face.
Because despite my persistent refusal to watch them, they consistently, unequivocally, wholly and effectively render me weak in the knees.
Every. Single. Time.
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Photo Credit: Quinn Mists by J Michael Sullivan, 2003.See original image here.
friday the 13th
6:53pm
A secret glance. A stolen brushing of hands amidst the chaos in the train.
Oversmoking. Lack of sleep. Haven't eaten since 10am.
7:38pm
Pioneer. 2012. Worth the wait. Suspended the consciousness.
10:18pm
Finally having lunch. Overeating after a week of fruits.
6 bottles of beer. 2 impromptu songs on the stage.
An indifferent crowd. Sincere smiles, insincere reasons.
Stories told, and jokes shared. Oblivion awaits.
12:58am
The night draws to a close.
Promises made to oneself despite lingering doubts.
The bill was wrong. I did not drink that much.
I deny it.
2:36am
Cavite. Home. Silence.
Sleep denied, sleep deprived.
Images floating, the mind refuses to concede.
The alcohol works like coffee. But that's just me.
4:47am
Sandman finally visits. And a new dawn breaks.
A smile peeks through closed eyes.
A secret glance. A stolen brushing of hands amidst the chaos in the train.
Oversmoking. Lack of sleep. Haven't eaten since 10am.
7:38pm
Pioneer. 2012. Worth the wait. Suspended the consciousness.
10:18pm
Finally having lunch. Overeating after a week of fruits.
6 bottles of beer. 2 impromptu songs on the stage.
An indifferent crowd. Sincere smiles, insincere reasons.
Stories told, and jokes shared. Oblivion awaits.
12:58am
The night draws to a close.
Promises made to oneself despite lingering doubts.
The bill was wrong. I did not drink that much.
I deny it.
2:36am
Cavite. Home. Silence.
Sleep denied, sleep deprived.
Images floating, the mind refuses to concede.
The alcohol works like coffee. But that's just me.
4:47am
Sandman finally visits. And a new dawn breaks.
A smile peeks through closed eyes.
kundush and ararat - vesper meeting
Introduced in The Beginning.
That evening the heavens did wail. Her downpour was forceful and persevering, like a flood that threatened to engulf the whole of Elysium Fields. The raindrops trickled its turquoise blanket across the lush fabric of the fields, cold and comforting, silently heaving in the blowing winds enveloping all in a sodden solace undeniably foreboding. In their mattress of turf Ararat’s embrace felt the most comforting to Kundush. Pulling Ararat closer, he could almost taste the ethereal scent of his breath cascading behind his shivering neck. Sending waves of caresses that still his heaving heart.
The mist edges its glacial claws tugging between their entwined bodies. Exquisite memories restored before his tightly closed eyes. Of that vesper night almost twelve annums ago when the very same heavens wailed beyond his comprehension. The solices where all too bright in that darkness, each in a symphony of its own, casting vivid beacons amidst the pitch black expanse. A vacuum filled with the opus of the heavens oscillating in a rhythm that mesmerizes.
He lost track of time, and the circadian cycles willfully ignored to remain in the path that his weary limbs needed to draw. He was cold, and painfully so. After almost three fortnights of torrential rains that surprised the elders. All those nights he was trapped in the Illuminatia, in a desperate attempt to salvage the manuscripts he had gingerly crafted as arch-scribe of the Elysia Seta. Yet he persevered, despite a hunger that threatens to cannibalize him, a sublimating hope that focuses dread, and a fleeting energy that he continually chased.
He was weak, famished and frigidly exhausted, and the split second that proceeded when he tripped on the cobbled pavement felt like a millennia in slow motion. The few scrolls he was able to reclaim from heaven’s tears tossed in midair and beyond his reach. They fell a few feet away on the puddle across the pavement, soiled and spoilt. Their poetic verses and florid illustrations dissolved in the morning dew and diluted by the pouring rain. Gone.
His legs finally gave and crumbled on the muddy bricks. Tears started flowing mixing with his saltine sweat and dripping with the pouring rain. He could taste the defeat in his lips as he clutched the disintegrating pages. Fumbling to remember what images were inscribed moments ago. Without realizing, his eyes began to swell and the sobs became wails. Calling to the heavens for a verdict undeserved.
He was unaware of a shadow approaching. An agile phantom.
“Are you ok?,” the man asked.
“I wish I was,” Kundush said.
“Why don’t you come inside and get dry. It’s freezing out here.” was the welcomed gesture.
“I can’t. I have to retrieve my scrolls.”
Without a pause, the man dove into the puddle, gracefully picking up the scrolls and fragments from the mud that was slowly thickening. Kundush stared, unable to comprehend the generosity and kindness this delightful man gave so willingly. The man was now covered in mud and sweat, yet his face remained as calm as the afternoon three fortnights ago prior to this deluge. With no hesitation, he proceeded to collect every last fragment lost in the drifting waves. When all was retrieved, he took the bunch of scrolls and manuscript fragments, wrapped them in the gauze that was tucked earlier in his rear pocket, and placed it carefully under his robes.
He held out his hand to Kundush.
Once standing, he took him in and wrapped his robes around both of them. Warm and cozy. Surreal yet utterly real. He held him between his shoulders to temper the delirious chills Kundush was now having.
“Now, can we come inside? I made fresh, hot gluchan.” he queried.
"Yes." was Kundush's muffled affirmation.
"Name's Ararat."
"Kundush."
Unconsciously Kundush reached inside the robes, and took Ararat’s arms to pull him closer. His warmth was relaxing, sending his frustrations and grief of the past three fortnights into oblivion. Therapeutic and timely. As he was led to the threshold of the house, Ararat started to hum a melody Kundush have heard before in the carallian annuals. A delicate smile slowly emerged from Kundush’ frail and tired lips. And it stayed there throughout the night.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
That evening the heavens did wail. Her downpour was forceful and persevering, like a flood that threatened to engulf the whole of Elysium Fields. The raindrops trickled its turquoise blanket across the lush fabric of the fields, cold and comforting, silently heaving in the blowing winds enveloping all in a sodden solace undeniably foreboding. In their mattress of turf Ararat’s embrace felt the most comforting to Kundush. Pulling Ararat closer, he could almost taste the ethereal scent of his breath cascading behind his shivering neck. Sending waves of caresses that still his heaving heart.
The mist edges its glacial claws tugging between their entwined bodies. Exquisite memories restored before his tightly closed eyes. Of that vesper night almost twelve annums ago when the very same heavens wailed beyond his comprehension. The solices where all too bright in that darkness, each in a symphony of its own, casting vivid beacons amidst the pitch black expanse. A vacuum filled with the opus of the heavens oscillating in a rhythm that mesmerizes.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
He lost track of time, and the circadian cycles willfully ignored to remain in the path that his weary limbs needed to draw. He was cold, and painfully so. After almost three fortnights of torrential rains that surprised the elders. All those nights he was trapped in the Illuminatia, in a desperate attempt to salvage the manuscripts he had gingerly crafted as arch-scribe of the Elysia Seta. Yet he persevered, despite a hunger that threatens to cannibalize him, a sublimating hope that focuses dread, and a fleeting energy that he continually chased.
He was weak, famished and frigidly exhausted, and the split second that proceeded when he tripped on the cobbled pavement felt like a millennia in slow motion. The few scrolls he was able to reclaim from heaven’s tears tossed in midair and beyond his reach. They fell a few feet away on the puddle across the pavement, soiled and spoilt. Their poetic verses and florid illustrations dissolved in the morning dew and diluted by the pouring rain. Gone.
His legs finally gave and crumbled on the muddy bricks. Tears started flowing mixing with his saltine sweat and dripping with the pouring rain. He could taste the defeat in his lips as he clutched the disintegrating pages. Fumbling to remember what images were inscribed moments ago. Without realizing, his eyes began to swell and the sobs became wails. Calling to the heavens for a verdict undeserved.
He was unaware of a shadow approaching. An agile phantom.
“Are you ok?,” the man asked.
“I wish I was,” Kundush said.
“Why don’t you come inside and get dry. It’s freezing out here.” was the welcomed gesture.
“I can’t. I have to retrieve my scrolls.”
Without a pause, the man dove into the puddle, gracefully picking up the scrolls and fragments from the mud that was slowly thickening. Kundush stared, unable to comprehend the generosity and kindness this delightful man gave so willingly. The man was now covered in mud and sweat, yet his face remained as calm as the afternoon three fortnights ago prior to this deluge. With no hesitation, he proceeded to collect every last fragment lost in the drifting waves. When all was retrieved, he took the bunch of scrolls and manuscript fragments, wrapped them in the gauze that was tucked earlier in his rear pocket, and placed it carefully under his robes.
He held out his hand to Kundush.
Once standing, he took him in and wrapped his robes around both of them. Warm and cozy. Surreal yet utterly real. He held him between his shoulders to temper the delirious chills Kundush was now having.
“Now, can we come inside? I made fresh, hot gluchan.” he queried.
"Yes." was Kundush's muffled affirmation.
"Name's Ararat."
"Kundush."
Unconsciously Kundush reached inside the robes, and took Ararat’s arms to pull him closer. His warmth was relaxing, sending his frustrations and grief of the past three fortnights into oblivion. Therapeutic and timely. As he was led to the threshold of the house, Ararat started to hum a melody Kundush have heard before in the carallian annuals. A delicate smile slowly emerged from Kundush’ frail and tired lips. And it stayed there throughout the night.
in somnis veritas III
Listen to the heart half-beating
Unsure of its fate
When the night folds in
The downpour of the past.
Feel the arms quivering
Entangled ectopic embrace
Of the solitary spirit left
When they have all moved on.
Taste the eyes flowing
His saltine streams of sorrow
Asking, wondering
If a fighting chance remains.
See his sweat glisten
Amidst the frigid solstice nocturne
Diligently persevering
Despite the dwindling hope.
Smell it, the fear
A waft of foreboding anguish
To a future of banished hymns
Where the world sings of love.
The senses quickening
Its delirious pace to shun
A defeat progressively encroaching
To suffocate the romantic man.
Unsure of its fate
When the night folds in
The downpour of the past.
Feel the arms quivering
Entangled ectopic embrace
Of the solitary spirit left
When they have all moved on.
Taste the eyes flowing
His saltine streams of sorrow
Asking, wondering
If a fighting chance remains.
See his sweat glisten
Amidst the frigid solstice nocturne
Diligently persevering
Despite the dwindling hope.
Smell it, the fear
A waft of foreboding anguish
To a future of banished hymns
Where the world sings of love.
The senses quickening
Its delirious pace to shun
A defeat progressively encroaching
To suffocate the romantic man.
