Calypso

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If there should be something that you must remember,
it is this: you are one of the many lovers
sinking their toes into the smooth sand of this isle.
I don’t say this in order to dull the fire
that we have stoked to flames, caressing the heavens –
but to confess and to stand witness to these piles of ashes.
soon you will leave, like the rest of your brethren,
to fulfill one of the Olympians’ worst curses:
inevitable love, the promise of loneliness;
my island a mere rest stop to your epic quests;
when you venture to the seas, gone the 0
(of us, of me) will be. you are a kind guest,

so please: keep your distance. let your sweet, sweet words fester,
on your tongue with your wistful desires- forever.

Photo credit: Tim Lane (British, b. Cheltenham, England, based Bristol, South West, England) – Sophia  Drawings: Graphite, Pencils, Paint on Paper

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XVI

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Let me make a home
     out of you. Show
me which step to your
     heart creaks along
the way, let me
     see the dust that has
gathered in the
     corners; in the rooms
abandoned. Tell
     me of the hour in
which the sun shines through
     the window and through
the cracks of the doors
     half-opened, and
spills onto the
     living room floor – a
golden pool of
     light that brightens up
the walls. Show me
     which secrets are
locked in the bedroom
     drawers. What hides
among skeletons
     in the closet;
what creatures we
     must fight in the dead
of night beneath
     your bed. Let me
join you in hiding
     places. And then, at
eve, underneath the
     blankets, on your side
of the bed, whisper
     to me what you
wish to dream of,
     let me hold you in
the cold.

In frame: depth // most recent drawing! 

Insomniac

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Thrice faster,
My heart and pulse
Seem to beat.
Warm blankets 
Pulled over my 
Head suffocates
Me in the
Darkness and I 
Lie wide awake with
The strange noises 
Of eve.

Until dawn comes, and 
It with you 
In the morn, and 
You sprinke stardust on 
My pillow – an arm 
Beneath my head – and take
Me with you to another universe.

You breathe 
In a rhythm that makes me think
Of lullabies and 
The melody 
Rises and falls incessantly until I 
Close my eyes –
calm, now, unafraid –

And drift off to dream.

In frame: love makes the flowers bloom // most recent drawing! 

An End to Ennui 

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I used to live in a large apartment building, composed of five stories and white-washed, where there must be four main staircases and four fire exits. I explored all likely routes and exits from our floor; from the hallway across us; from the dangling ladder leading to a stairwell at the grounds. Vans that exist to sell internal organs of children and houses that become the prison of those kidnapped drilled into my head – as well as my address, parents’ numbers, and the correct answer to who do you approach for help? -, what was once just a simple pasttime became something vaguely useful. Throughout the years, when we moved from one place to another, I had developed the obsessive habit of checking all the potential escape routes. Large windows, fire exits. Ladders and stairwells. Rooftops low enough for me to jump onto the neighbor’s roof if needed. The more the escape routes, the more comfortable I was.

Perhaps it developed me into a fickle person, somewhat capricious – perhaps it was one of the symptoms of me being so. I could never stay as someone constant. Once something begins, it must have an end. Entropy increases; everything crumbles. Faced with people and new circles of friends; a new living space; a new school, I ask – how do I get out of this? How will it end? How do I save myself; keep my head above the water? What are the ways out? I look for the escape routes within people. I look for escape routes within situations. I look for escape routes in every place. I was running away from danger that wasn’t even present. In my thinking, it really wasn’t – not yet.

Maybe in some circumstances it was for the better. Most of the time, however, it seems I set myself up for destruction and run away before it could get worse. I start the fire and let it consume the bridges I’ve established; I let it burn down to ashes. I don’t look back and blind myself enough to think it was a natural occurrence.

It’s strange to feel contentment. It’s strange to want it; to have the comfort of everything the way they are even with the dust that’s gathered at every nook and corner. I know things will not stay static; I know things are bound to change. I used to be bored to death with the same people and the same damn things. Now I keep thinking of a daily routine as a luxury of the present.

Now, I’ll hold on to every moment of how things are. Tear out the memories from my mind and tear out pieces of paper and put them there. Ink and paper is not bound to betray us, unlike our fading memories and aging bodies, unlike time; unlike everything to be weathered down to be unrecognizable. What matters right this moment is how everything stands, as if we were indestructible. As if we are invincible.

As if we are timeless.

In frame: the universe conspires for you to grow, by me! It’s my most recent drawing.

 The City 

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Look out the city, look up the skies.

A thousand lights above, a thousand lights spread around –

neon colors aglow, cars on idle, men and women on a walk to home; 

men and women in search of home –

in the corners of the city, where heaps of waste are prayed upon not to suffocate those in the tin roofs below –

how strange it is to feel forsaken surrounded by a myriad of lives;

how strange it is to stumble upon yourself and come upon the cognizance 

of the inevitable lack of awarenesss of the stories untold, unfolding – macabre, light-hearted, incredulous – of each and every one. 

With what you know about what you do not know 

– of dark hours, of the alleys, of streets, of rumbling stomachs, of bleeding bodies, of minds driven to the edge of cliffs, of children with their knees tucked up their stomachs in large tees, of cardboard beds –

how accountable is man?

Count the times you spit the word idealistic and washed your mouth to get rid of it;

count the times you turned a blind eye to the point you reconstructed the lives of those in suffering;

count the times you, safely housed, in a nine-to-five shift, you who know the luck of eating three square meals,

and mock those who scrape to it day-by-day on the streets,

count the times you’ve stayed mum

and the silence became an accomplice – 

we know what little we could have done,

we know we have done only so much – 

this is where we choose not to be the culprit

this is where we wash our hands of everything. 

The Moon 

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She is the sole witness to the whispers in the dark,
The fire of guns, the shadows and silhouettes Hidden from sight – growing 
Larger, advancing on a victim –
And the blood that stains the streets
That reeks to the heavens;
She is the sole witness to the cries of children
To the wail of a mother, to 
The panicked scream as a door is struck 
Down; bodies clad in blue sworn to
Secure the safety of the masses after 
Their lives, heroes of a society
Broken, never to be mistaken; to the 
Sick and innocent dead by the hand of 
Their own people, their lives reduced
To a statistic and scorned as the
Disease that rots away civilization, 
Better off dead for progress, the 
Hypocritical progress that is supposed 
To grow but kills and is lost in the
Lines blurred between justice
And ethics and the rights of every 
Human being turned into a punchline instead of a priority and
By God, she watches every night,
She does, she counts the minutes till
Dawn, she wishes the clouds were 
Thicker to hide her,
To stop her from giving them light 
That aids them – but in darkness too in her Absence they are all the more aided,
And the glowing streetlamps of the
Country bathing the pavements in orange
Are brighter than she is – and she 
Longs,
She desires,
For the sun
To rise.

VICE: Duterte’s Drug War Has Now Killed 54 Children

What went wrong with bloody Mandaluyong shootout?