Words fail, when the heart sprints incessantly

Falling upon deaf ears, for that question unanswered

Maybe in a forlorn reality thrown into the chasm of life

I hold a morsel, remaining untouched, unconsumed.

But for now I am a footnote, those disparate minutiae

Informative, but utterly irrelevant, meaningless in this moment

Yet in this barren conduit, find comfort in the faceless crowd

You might find me, here, where I have always been

all this time.

The sun to my fragile leaves;

dancing midday in whispered heaves,

tangled between each other’s’ steps

supple lines, swiftly caressed.

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Just remember, once you're over the hill 

you begin to pick up speed.

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Charles Schulz

People generally dread turning 30, like an affliction that creeps in in the dead of night, turning youth into vain memory, a faint spark of glory days when life meant frolicking in wanton abandon, unbridled by mature conceptions such as responsibility and making a living. Considered a social fulcrum, men of this age and beyond are expected to forego juvenile dreams, and fickle behaviour, opting for the supposedly adult values of sound-mindedness, being goal-oriented, and a sense of obligation.

How easy it would be fall into this stereotype, conceding to the call of age, of time, and of the present. To pledge allegiance to social expectations, because the alternative, uncertainty, is a disposition that men fear with the same progression as they do with age. That the closer you are to your deathbed, the more you fear its eventuality, thus consequently turning the most free-spirited of us into jaded, indifferent, flawed pragmatists and cynics. That to become an adult, or mature, means to fall in line, to follow the flock, and to brand oneself with the searing humility of normalcy.

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This space, barren, quivers in the vast nothingness that has penetrated it. Unspoken words linger afloat in the cavity that trails untraced from there to nowhere. Miniscule crumbs left sprawled across the coffee table. Drapes hung low and depressed in the parched summer humidity, with seams tattered and undone. The floor creaks with patience for the foot that never sets foot upon it. Windows left ajar, wide and welcoming to the forgotten beyond. Paint cracked and peeling across walls stained with the mute passing of time, withered and pasty accumulating along the edges of the room, like termite-ridden dusting, sans the termites. For, even they have left abandoned this place. The leather sofa sits idly in a corner, askew from the line of the antique Persian rug beneath it, its upholstery frayed with a dullness whose cause is suspect. A broken floor lamp slumps with its wiring exposed, and its shades torn and discolored  A heel-less stiletto boot here, a discarded iPhone there; trinkets and follies without ownership and purpose.

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Because everyone needs a pick-me-up sometimes.

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I recently passed the Licensure Examination for Architects (more on this later on) and amidst the fanfare, debacle, and confusion on what transpired during the examination, an outpouring of congratulatory sentiment permeated the online communities. This may be rather quotidian and ordinary for most, but for those who do not subscribe to the typical social media platforms, Facebook in particular, this sort of emotional projected self-promotion became rather curious.

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"Nothing, before its time."
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  Alicia Keys

For the thousands of my brethren, my comrade-at-arms, my kindred spirits, who have taken the recent Licensure Examination for Architects last January, this week spells the inimitable wait towards finding out, revoking all previous qualms and uncertainties, if we have earned the legal and professional right to call ourselves architects.
 

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