ode to the jomanian constellation

Arise, oh heart as ripe, as true;
Though the darkness fail this cold.
The loins speak of tales untold;
Fate shall set you free anew.
The evening, unleash its splendid fangs;
To whom that is most unbeknownst.
And tears will dry, as sweat will flow;
Inebriated amidst the night’s glow.
Though concrete pavers lined in dew;
Will witness tales that’ll ensue.
Headstrong, proud you’ll face its lure;
By the integrity whole and sure.
-red the mod 03:16am 16 July 2009






The heavens are silent tonight. It is the calm before the storm, the sweet serenity preceding a tempest. There are days when the heavens wail, and we are made most aware of its defiance against our own transgressions. But tonight all is silent. The foreboding fear is far more menacing when we are left clueless in the dead of night. Despite our valiant attempts to regain composure, certain things must be faced only when the moment permits. Only when time deals its aim. Only when the situation is immediately apparent. Only when faith unfurls its mighty shroud before our eyes.

I sit now in contemplation of a long lost book. Whose pages echo a story so exquisite and eloquent we cannot help but bask in the comfort of its epiphanies. We have lost that book to the turbulent tides of the current, to the phantom mists of our ambivalence. Yet I here I am once again seeking its comfort in spite of its hurried absence. An era has ended with the closing of its covers. It is but a mere memory of the nonchalant wisdom it once offered me. In its place a longing trembles without a voice, and I look beyond to the copper hues of the heavens awaiting indications of its former spark. I reminisce what very little my memory can afford, to relive his words that lance my existence with a knowing beyond his years. The cerulean sheets lie naked in the bosoms of history. Time will come and the storm will pass, in its wake we will forget the book it took in its Diaspora. But here and now I would like to remember.

Almost two months ago a blog closed. And a vow of chastity was made. I will never be privy to the prior series of events that lead to its untimely termination. If anything, I can only profess my deep admiration for the words that strung stories and lessons we have been so luckily audience to. Suffice to say, what it represents has lost its ground, and a new chapter must then be written. In it, the knowledge gained from the past chapters will seek validation in the forthcoming volumes. It was a big loss to blogspace, whose hurried ramblings seek only the momentary distraction of more than a few, and we pry our days in yearning for its melodious meaning. But fate has dealt its cards. And a new chapter must commence.

In a few hours the vow of chastity will be lifted. Whether or not its lifting will unveil a pandora’s box, we can only listen to its oscillating pulse, whose wavelength echoes the span of the heavens. Blue and bejeweled, or pitch black and paralyzing. Seek comfort in the hope that the lessons of the past will find cadence in the beating of the heart. And that integrity will succeed against the allure of the mundane.

You say you want a heart? Why would you want a heart? A heart will never be practical until it is made unbreakable.
–The Wizard of Oz

When the storm arrives, do look up in the heavens. Maybe up there you’ll see a glint of the Jomanian Constellation, whose magnificence provided radiance beneath the crowded tracks, and across the glistening streets. Remember what we learned, and respect what we are. Men of the night. Resilient and strong, whose virile dominance waver occasionally, but the core retains its virtues. There is always a choice, and although it never presents itself so eagerly, we need only to seek bearing from what our hearts will never deny and our humanity confirm.

I am a mere observer to the tale of the soul. Whose very words speak of a burden that we cannot comprehend. The same burden all of us carry in varying degrees, in various permutations, in all morphologies and phenotypes. My empathy may never be enough to fathom the depth of its sentiment, and the intricacies of its plot. One can only hope for him. The same hope we have for ourselves. That beyond the superficiality of our cultural anarchy, the few will never be forgotten. And that integrity still has value. And that love is an achievable possibility.

- To Pulsar, Darkstar, Kitsune, and Mugen

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Postscript 12:03pm
As of press time, the heavens did wail. The trails of the forthcoming typhoon lashed its turquoise tears this morning, bringing with it torrential flooding of semi-epic proportions. Aguinaldo Highway is now a lake, the very reason of the tardiness in the posting of this entry, and the author being 4 hours late to work.