consummatum-est

It's strange, almost unsettling, to realize that we will never truly know the very first works of our favorite artists ever made. Not the work that found an audience, but the one that existed only in private. Born in quiet, dismissed in quiet, and buried there. The beginnings that existed before courage did. The first song they ever formed, unheard by anyone, because it was judged too harshly and silenced by their own belief that it wasn't good enough. Lyrics written on paper that never found their melody, words that stayed words that existed briefly before being folded away, forgotten, or abandoned, separated forever from the sound they were meant to become.
          	
          	There are stories sleeping in documents no one has opened in years—an entire constellation of thought—they wait inside old documents, carrying half-finished emotions, and unresolved endings. Universes with their own gravity, their own skies, their own characters who once lived vividly in imagination. Characters who had histories, dreams, and destinies waiting to unfold. Stories that breathed for a moment before the creator lost the courage or the will to continue. Characters frozen mid-scene, suspended in a single moment, waiting for the sentence that would have allowed them to move forward. No words came, and so they stayed where they were, because there were no more words to set them free.
          	
          	The same is true for those who paint. The canvases that were never touched, or the first sketches that were hidden away, deemed unworthy of light. Colors that were imagined but never mixed. Strokes that trembled with uncertainty and were erased before they could exist. How many first sketches were left unfinished at the corner of a page? How many canvases were covered over, erased, or hidden because the artist believed they were not yet worthy of being seen?

consummatum-est

And beyond them, dancers who practiced movements alone in their rooms, choreographies that lived only in muscle memory. Filmmakers who imagined scenes they never shot. Poets whose verses stayed locked inside notebooks. Sculptors who saw forms in stone but never carved them out. So much art was born quietly. Artists of every kind who carried beauty within them but doubted it enough to keep it unseen.
          	  
          	  And somehow, that thought makes me sad because I want to know everything. I want to know how it all began. I want to learn the small details, the messy drafts, the quiet failures, the moments when they almost stopped. I want to ask a million questions and listen to every answer, just to understand them fully. To trace the lines from who they were to who they became. To see the art before it learned how to survive the world. These forgotten creations haunt me in a quiet way not because they failed, but because they almost were. They lived in the fragile space between possibility and disappearance. Cus art is not only what we consume, but also what never reaches us. That behind every masterpiece we love are countless beginnings we will never meet.
          	  
          	  And maybe that’s the most tender truth of all. That even the unseen art mattered. It shaped the hands, the voice, the vision of the creator. It taught them how to keep going. Somewhere in those abandoned songs, unfinished stories, and hidden sketches lies the beginning of everything we love now. And even if the world never witnessed them, they were never meaningless they were the quiet proof that creation, in all its fragile beginnings, is an act of hope.
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consummatum-est

It's strange, almost unsettling, to realize that we will never truly know the very first works of our favorite artists ever made. Not the work that found an audience, but the one that existed only in private. Born in quiet, dismissed in quiet, and buried there. The beginnings that existed before courage did. The first song they ever formed, unheard by anyone, because it was judged too harshly and silenced by their own belief that it wasn't good enough. Lyrics written on paper that never found their melody, words that stayed words that existed briefly before being folded away, forgotten, or abandoned, separated forever from the sound they were meant to become.
          
          There are stories sleeping in documents no one has opened in years—an entire constellation of thought—they wait inside old documents, carrying half-finished emotions, and unresolved endings. Universes with their own gravity, their own skies, their own characters who once lived vividly in imagination. Characters who had histories, dreams, and destinies waiting to unfold. Stories that breathed for a moment before the creator lost the courage or the will to continue. Characters frozen mid-scene, suspended in a single moment, waiting for the sentence that would have allowed them to move forward. No words came, and so they stayed where they were, because there were no more words to set them free.
          
          The same is true for those who paint. The canvases that were never touched, or the first sketches that were hidden away, deemed unworthy of light. Colors that were imagined but never mixed. Strokes that trembled with uncertainty and were erased before they could exist. How many first sketches were left unfinished at the corner of a page? How many canvases were covered over, erased, or hidden because the artist believed they were not yet worthy of being seen?

consummatum-est

And beyond them, dancers who practiced movements alone in their rooms, choreographies that lived only in muscle memory. Filmmakers who imagined scenes they never shot. Poets whose verses stayed locked inside notebooks. Sculptors who saw forms in stone but never carved them out. So much art was born quietly. Artists of every kind who carried beauty within them but doubted it enough to keep it unseen.
            
            And somehow, that thought makes me sad because I want to know everything. I want to know how it all began. I want to learn the small details, the messy drafts, the quiet failures, the moments when they almost stopped. I want to ask a million questions and listen to every answer, just to understand them fully. To trace the lines from who they were to who they became. To see the art before it learned how to survive the world. These forgotten creations haunt me in a quiet way not because they failed, but because they almost were. They lived in the fragile space between possibility and disappearance. Cus art is not only what we consume, but also what never reaches us. That behind every masterpiece we love are countless beginnings we will never meet.
            
            And maybe that’s the most tender truth of all. That even the unseen art mattered. It shaped the hands, the voice, the vision of the creator. It taught them how to keep going. Somewhere in those abandoned songs, unfinished stories, and hidden sketches lies the beginning of everything we love now. And even if the world never witnessed them, they were never meaningless they were the quiet proof that creation, in all its fragile beginnings, is an act of hope.
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consummatum-est

                Iblis to his lump of clay: 
          
          And if even forever runs dry beneath my love for you,
          I’d plead with the gods to let me live a thousand more lives
          to lose you, find you, and lose you again,
          until the universe grows tired of our names.
          
          And if eternity still fails to contain my love for you,
          then let me shatter time itself just to begin again.
          I’d die a thousand gentle deaths and rise from every one,
          just to find your eyes in the crowd once more.
          
          I’d walk barefoot through heaven’s silence,
          and kneel before hell’s fire if it meant hearing your voice.
          Even when stars burn out and the world forgets my name,
          I’d drown in every lifetime just to breathe beside you once again.

consummatum-est

Roses are red, 
          frogs are green, 
          the sky is never blue, 
          nor is the sun truly yellow
          
          Roses are not always red,
          sometimes they wither, painted black instead.
          Thorns whisper secrets where lovers have bled,
          a kiss tastes sweeter when fear is fed.
          
          But frogs should always be green,
          their skin a warning of venom unseen.
          A single touch could rot what’s clean,
          poison is love in its cruelest sheen.
          
          Blue could be violet in the dying light,
          a shade that belongs to the edge of night.
          Colors deceive and twist the sight,
          like lovers who linger, yet never feel right.
          
          Sun is never yellow, but sickly white,
          an eye that burns through endless night.
          It peels the skin with its cursed light,
          a god of decay dressed in something bright.
          
          Lovers drown in colors that lie,
          In roses, in poison, in skies that cry.
          ’Cause roses are red, and the sky is blue,
          Frogs are not always green, the sun is yellow too.

consummatum-est

Once again, I bought something I didn’t need, something I already had at home yet I couldn’t resist, because it was YELLOW. (⁠｡⁠ﾉ⁠ω⁠＼⁠｡⁠) I’ve always had this weakness for yellow, never stopping to think twice whenever it’s in front of me. Wait, naalala ko ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ 
          
          I once had a classmate back in senior high who had the most striking light amber eyes. Her eyes had this rare kind of glow that made it almost impossible to look away that whenever sunlight kissed them, they shimmered into a radiant gold like the sun itself had chosen to rest in her gaze. I was so spellbound that even my quiet, introverted self found the courage to speak to her, just to be closer to that light. (⁠✷⁠‿⁠✷⁠)
          
          She was a pure Filipina, no trace of foreign blood, yet her gaze alone carried the brilliance of something otherworldly. Sadly, we only met a few times because it was during the pandemic, and we never even became friends. Damn, I still think about it sometimes ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ