do us humans repeat the same thing over & over again, and still couldn't call our common works beautiful?
an early 7am morning. Sunday morning arise from Saturday evening. drenched by my own slumber from yesterday.
preparing white rice & hot choco drink before going outside to go to school. rubber shoes getting dusted & polished in the corners of the room.
taking cold showers. wearing warm jackets even when it's summer. the satin fabrics hugging your skin. the hair swinging on the shells of your collarbones. the circling of shoulders.
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.
the chest, the lungs that breathe existence. the heart, the core that drives, that animates us, our outlines, our colors fully spread to be alive in the notions that death isn't living.
the space that i extracted up on my room. my cats scribing my footsteps knowing when will i feed them. closing doors to feel really close to my existence—opening doors for nature walks.
ahh, what a heartfelt gesture—what does replacing soft pillows with fresh & new washed pillow cases feel, like every week? what was the feeling of wearing your favorite clothes in boring days?
what euphoria has it that was ushered on your system, guiding it to the interiors of your being, what happiness for it has to bring?
what love has come to spring? to blossom during winter days? to enjoy nothing during boring hours? to inhabit a vacant space without expanding it just for others to let in?
what does your ideals you looked up into transcribe you into a copy of your true version? what, what are these question marks saying to you? do they always ask, and ask, and ask, until there was no answers left?
𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬?
this unbearable fondness in our typical lives; this motion of staying alive, this feeling, the heart that our life beats.
ahh, how doors creak open & close when we hold their handles. how gates close with us within their premise.
how the trees kept standing still observing people walking by. how the skies warn us that there will be rain.
𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬;
they remain floating on the grounds, in a space we don't occupy, motionless & standstill, lightweight & invisible, glad for humans giving the air.
isn't the simpleness, the little things, the sentimental things life brings that make human lives beautiful?
the ordinary; the mundane things we get tired to repeat endlessly. the pattern we sketch everyday that we follow: a routine. a schedule. a deadline we will never see for we are accustomed to do it on a repeated basis.
it seems like a clock knowing when to tick its fingers. an hour. a minute. a second. a life has passed. time don't last. loose & firm. light & dim.
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲.
the seam in the fabric spiraling the dress that time has sewn into us. the flowerpots carrying flowers i water every afternoon, predicting—will it wither or bloom or just be still, out of motion?
a staircase we constructed finding ourselves loving the footsteps we made since we love to see the view of the scenery on top of the highest stairs. is
the view amusing? what was the view looked like when you're standing still on top of the fluffy clouds? isn't standing on the heaven elevates you to see how the sun's radiance collides with the atmosphere?
like when you're drawing in a canvas, you already know what to paint. you're aware of what marks & parts to map.
what inks to smear on the paper. what letters are to be read. what pigment has to be dyed red. what color has it to be dyed, green, yellow, or blue? what face to look upon at the mirror, your face or the soul in you?
what wings have us to flutter & spread to etch on our soul that nothing will be free? that not a single part of us sinked on the bottom just for life we had
to not flee?
what place to go on an adventure to. what direction, what movement will move us through? is it the strokes of letters we draw on the sands? is it, is it the random constellations? is it the stars wanting to dim themselves, just for a moment see the stars origin on us--for us to light our own way?
and what, this atmosphere has to set? for what setting has come into place?
what is it that our life has tampered, our inner selves have reflected, our mind not limited, to understand what life we have to live?
in movies, in shows, in fictional stories we don't live. we don't have to love other's life. for living one's life exists to be whole with living.
𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞?
what emptiness, what desires have to be yet fulfilled with the space & time we consume?
the love of living life. the sacred existence. for i—for this beauty to be looked upon. parts upon parts, i assemble to be whole again. bits by bits, as i combine together just for my parts to love my being.
yet, we live to love the life we live;
always—and it's scary how often us humans love others
without loving our parts,
& still be too beautiful being alive
with our unloved parts.
--
von frederick, "living life with loved & unloved parts" 🌿☁️
July 31, 2023
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Pieces of Moonbeams
PoetryPieces of Moonbeams | 2023 This poetry collection contains proses & proses woven from my heart. Pieces here are a part of me. Stained by longing, love, grief, hurt, happiness, and any other available emotion I could profoundly describe. -- I am rel...
