thoughts

What is Life but a Disaster Movie

What We Love is of Hate

There’s always a pressing matter to discuss. A war, a struggle, a death or thousands of deaths. The world is a big place so surely something will go wrong.

Think about how the best stories are always the most tragic. We love disaster movies that take place after society collapses and the human population has been cut in half.

And why is that?

People tend to come together after a natural disaster takes place. Will it ever cross our minds that if we came together before the destruction we’d have a better chance to defend against it? When watching a disaster movie, this is what I think about: If the characters came together before the storm, would they have escaped disaster sooner?

If this is the case, the movie would be over in the first fifteen minutes. And we can’t have that, can we? Hollywood needs to make money and the audience must be entertained. The reality is that we love tragedy. Suffering breeds character, right? It’s the creed that we live by. So why do we fear death? Why do we act like we’re not in love with carnage?

What We Romanticize is Everything

It’s always a fight between good and evil. I ask myself how is this true? History has never been born of memory. War is never fought between heroes and villains, but two opposing sides. Those who win the war are the story-tellers of what caused it.

This is why war films are conflicting to me. Disaster movies with the soldier as the main character—everything that happens is from their point-of-view.

But what about the civilians? What becomes of them when telling someone else’s story? When it’s their homes that are battleground. When they become as meaningless to the government as are buildings to a bomb. We let them become foot-notes or simply forgotten.

What is History is Determined by Those Who Survive it

Life is similar to disaster movies. Everything we own is threatened when valued by someone else. It’s easy to take advantage of other people. We’d put our lives in the hands of someone who only knows how to handle a weapon. Is this why love leads to heartbreak? To protect someone, they have to be more valued than a gun.

War is chess but played like checkers. We think having the most pieces on the board means we’re winning. Sacrifice is easy with this mindset. The more you have makes it easier to give something up. In other words, it’s not a loss if it can be replaced.

Politics seem so simple when we think like this. Have enough people on our side and we’ll call it a victory. We no longer question what is being fought for as we’re too concerned with fighting against something. For once, I want to feel like I’m going somewhere rather than leaving a place. Even if the destination doesn’t exist, I’d rather believe it does. It’s better that than always having to run from something. I’m exhausted from my paranoia that anything can be a threat.

What is Hell is Made Up of Ourselves

There’s always a devil, a sinister force, or a boogieman hidden in the darkest corners. So let’s shine light there and expose them. I’d rather see the devil’s true face than pretend we live in heaven because we can’t feel the fire. Don’t you?

We never cared for each other. Whether if it’s votes in politics or successes in work—we find no worth in ourselves. What we accomplish is more important than who we are. Love is earned and malice is given, when it should be the other way around.

The future is grim as is my excitement for it.

Fear, and not love, has dictated every decision we make. It’s a sickness that everyone is infected with. A virus of hate that has turned into an epidemic. We can’t retreat into ourselves as a quarantine forever. Eventually, we’ll have to discover a cure. And yet, I ask myself: what’s the point? Ignoring the scars makes the pain hurt a little bit less.

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thoughts

An Escape Route: What Love Can Become

What are you apologizing for? If you love yourself, never seek a reason. There’s no need to answer the mirror when it asks what about you is worth loving. You, still alive, is the only answer you need.

Remember, It’s okay to love yourself and never ask why. Besides, The answers will never be good enough for you anyways. Maybe that’s your biggest problem: how you can hate yourself as much as you do.

Question love long enough and you’ll soon discover hate. Sadly, tragedy is born, not from pain, but love. It’s true, that all life has an end. That death isn’t evil but only a means in which this inevitable truth becomes reality. So find comfort in that fact.

Everything comes into being through cycles. You’re on a journey, but this path isn’t a road; it’s a maze. You must leave a place to get somewhere else. In order to escape a maze, walk through it. Even when you’re lost, you’re where you’re supposed to be. At least, if you learn to think that way. All pathways in a maze lead to an exit, eventually.

Remember this: love cannot be a promise. That connection doesn’t fit in any context. People break promises as easy as glass. They’ll watch it shatter on the floor and won’t bother to pick up the pieces. Instead, they’ll find that shards can make the perfect weapon. It’s sad that people are monstrous that way.

This is why you must be careful of those around you. Be aware of the friends you give that title to. Even the heart can be a weapon to the body it occupies. In most instances, love can be a threat. Provides sanctuary only to take it away from you. So how would you describe Hell? It’s the place where Heaven no longer is.

So what can love be other than a question? It must mean more than a statement. Hold more honor than a promise. Be something greater than a threat. Can love be conformation? That it exists simply because you say it does. If that’s the case, then don’t say love is a road. It cannot lead you to a place you don’t feel exists. Instead, say love is the exit from the maze. This way, if you have no idea where you’re going, you’ll find comfort knowing that you aren’t truly lost.

And you never were to begin with.

#poetry

Love Poem to the Stars

rain is the sky is the empath.
it is the cry for help & uncalm rain.

night is the sky is our skin,
its also human—     
the rediscovery & the reminder
that we’re the sky too.

in the dark, anything as small
as a flashlight can mimic a star
or that is what we tell ourselves
to escape from it—    
the black hole blooming into being
as bones born into body that will soon become us

similar to the mind, how it alters into
the night, ever growing.
forever it seems, we search for light
to lead us somewhere & found nothing.

when I say, the sky haunts me
don’t think mental illness
as you’ve never looked up,
felt the moonlight beat into
your back—
claws tapping your shoulder
eager to snatch you.

how the moon seems so small
despite its bigness.
a monster tip-toeing through the clouds
  does anyone know its there.

as I peek through the windows
like critters through a thick bush,
the only thing I see is you
on a street corner glaring at
a flickering light pole.

a mantra:

love the stars & purge us
of all that is dark
of all that is except this skin
for this is the only thing
worth loving

love their song & calm us
of the demons in our heads
as if we were children again
still believing the power of lullabies      
how they pacify monsters underneath our bed

what we see as stars are dying light
born from supernovas.

when the star in its final act
of self-destruction
explodes into a sudden flash,
only to become that of the black hole.

isn’t it funny, the illusion of it all?       
how what we see isn’t what is real?
how what is alive to us
is disguise of something dead?

when nature becomes the metaphor,       
we become the very thing we despise.
how no matter the brightness of star
eventually it’ll be as dark as night.

isn’t it sad how human it all is?        
how the moon only pretends to shine
& how okay we are even knowing this?

the promise:

if this is darkness
we can discover strength
this heart we call shadow
will bloom into animal
or a love we’ll name galaxy

so strong my senses, I felt the storm
clouds of dark curls & saw the luminance
of sunlit eyes & smelled the fresh aroma
of colorful fields after rainfall,

I found myself outside with you,
arms around you as moonlight
over the river.

its okay if you’re not okay,
my voice blends into the wind
empowers it.

the epiphany:

love yourself & love
with all that is in you,
with all that is, including the skin
for it too is a place worth loving.

when the sun finally peeks
& discovers us in this moment, I pray
you see me
love you in all the ways you should love yourself

a picture of a book with sparkles of light shooting out from the pages as the book is opened
thoughts

I Have a Question for You…

There’s this saying, it’s better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

Yet, with you, this doesn’t apply. You’re one of those people who always has something to say. There’s wisdom in your words. You say those quotes people love to put on their Instagram. You speak in such a way that even the world slows down a bit. It’s like the wind is trying to get caught in your voice. Even the sun shines brighter, wanting to give you all the spotlight. The world makes way so you can have your moment.  

Don’t be silent. Your words must be louder than your actions. You must speak because you’re the only one being listened to. So why don’t you speak the truth?

When it comes to convictions, whatever you believe in, you must know what to say. If the truth isn’t heard, how can you expect any action to follow? So what is your truth? You must have one if you want to survive this world. When you die, what is it that you want to leave behind? You care about a legacy, right? Then what story are you trying to tell?   

It always starts with a question: Who are you?

The words beat into your head. Creates a migraine you cannot shake. It’s like a virus how it seeps into your skin. Makes a home in the spaces that’s always out of reach. Imagine it as an itch you cannot scratch, even as you peel the skin trying to find it. The scars you leave behind is how it mocks you. It’s as desperate as you for an answer.

So what do you say to it? How do you say nothing without feeling like you’ve betrayed yourself? You run away from a mirror as if the reflection is a monster. And maybe it is. Maybe the reason you cannot answer the question is because you’re afraid of what you might say.

Some questions demand hard truths.

For instance, did you know the body can be a cage to the soul? The heartbeat is the sound of someone banging on a steel door. You want someone to find you. Sadly, self-discovery in the place where you’re lost isn’t likely. You’ve long forgotten where it was you were trying to go. Did you ever know the purpose of a road? That you must create one. This means, you must know the destination. It’s impossible to find what you’re not searching for.   

How foolish of you to think you could. You want a prison to escape itself. How do you demand what doesn’t make sense in any context?

This question is always presented as an interrogation. You committed the crime of being someone you wasn’t. The universe has a strong need to expose liars. Do you think there’s power in your name? Eventually, you’ll be tested on that belief. Are you someone of worth? Watch as everything crumbles all around you. Not many can build kingdoms from ruins. So answer this: what do you have when you lose everything? What you say should humble you.

You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. You’ll never be for someone else what you aren’t for yourself.

A friend you never were. How can you be a diary of someone else’s secrets? I’ve read every chapter of the book you’ve written. No one has ever called you trustworthy. The words printed in your handwriting is sloppy as if you’ve rushed to finish it. Did you think the reader would do the same? Skim through each page, ignore the grammar mistakes, and not ask questions when the plot makes no sense. I see now what has you afraid. The truth is, you have nothing to say because there’s no story worth telling.

Is there?

A dark greyish picture of a mirror reflecting a tree.
thoughts

Beware the Mirror: the Not-Hidden Message Written on its Surface

When I see you, I believe it’s a mirror. You become a reflection of what I want to appear. Or should I say, not myself, as of now. This moment, like every moment before, I want to forget.

If only, I could see a memory. Then, I can make it real. Watch it become reality so I can change it. Or, give it a new name as if to say, ‘I own this thing too.’

There is no smoke & mirrors. Everything about this image is real. What isn’t, however, is my perception. Like, how I can look into a mirror and see myself reflected back. This is really me, except it isn’t. What I see is light refracted through the glass and my eyes making sense of it.

Science says, this is how a mirror works. And I think that’s right until I look into one. Then, I remember what Nietzsche said about staring into an abyss. A demon always glares back with my own eyes. See? No one has to teach a body how to despise itself.

It’s like the mirror reveals the worst in people. Brings out what’s hidden in darkness into light so it cannot be avoided. You ever try running away from the sun? Even a shadow can’t hide behind something when light discovers it. The same goes for the mirror. It says, I cannot hide from myself forever.

A mirror taught me about self-hate and its consequences. How you can love yourself a little less, the longer you stare into it. Find flaws you never cared about before. Secrets exposed for only you to see. It seems that light is just as blinding as the dark.

It’s like a mirror is a vacuum into another world. Maybe what I see isn’t a reflection, but my soul being pushed out into someone else. It works like love but more sinister.

Self-hate had me searching for reasons to hate myself. A mirror was my way to seek answers. Saw myself instead, as if this was the confirmation I wanted. And soon, the question of who am I became why aren’t I.

Or maybe, I’m the mirror. Broken, I can fix. Yet, will always see cracks on its surface. Funny how something as tough as glass can shatter so easy. You’re likely to cut your fingers putting its shards back together. It’s like the mirror says, ‘healing can hurt the skin as much as the wound inflicted upon it.’

A fixed mirror never works the way it did. It’s known that light refracts differently on cracked surfaces. Images become distorted as if trying to maintain its shape despite the fractures. Eventually, we look a little less human.

Then, we start acting like it. Become the monsters the mirror reveals us as. That’s why, we look for ourselves in other people. How do we call this love when no good comes from it? The heart beats and is beaten into submission. Why I’d rather see myself in a shattered mirror.

I hated my reflection so much, I punched the glass to break it. When only my knuckles bled, I realized how hate can turn into pain. And how human evolution is best seen in ways we destroy ourselves. Just look how quickly arrows and stones turned into guns and bombs. And how quickly I went from being outraged to enraged. 

And how I blamed you.

I mean, you should’ve told me about mirrors. About the bad luck of breaking one. That it curses you longer than a measly seven years. That the walls become mirrors themselves when you scream at them. That an echo is nothing more than a reflection of sound. That my own voice would get tired of speaking when it’s not being listened to.

You should’ve told me about myself. About where I fit into this world. That I do fit in this world. That I’m not a puzzle piece & that it’s okay if I don’t fit correctly into the ‘right spot’. That there aren’t any right spots. That there isn’t a puzzle or a shattered mirror. That glass, no matter how small, reflects an image as its seen. That I’m tougher than glass. That a reflection doesn’t reflect a lack of soul searching. You should’ve told me something.

Or maybe, I should apologize. Say sorry for not listening when you tried to speak.

a picture of a planet exploding. the planet is surrounded by fire.
thoughts

Scapegoat: the Sky is the Reason for All our Sins

I hate when we preach for non-violence. And no, it’s not because I’m against peace. In fact, it’s the opposite. I crave for peace like the memory of a dream once I wake up in the morning.

What I hate is the exaggeration of it. Nothing about world peace is deliberate. It’s like a New Year’s Resolution: a goal that we don’t actively pursue.

We want to save the world while we’re destroying it. Is this arrogance or stupidity? Maybe both. But does it matter? My beliefs of heroes and villains are dead.

They’ve died on populated cities turned battlefields. I’ve long buried my hopes of peace in the same graveyards where we bury innocent victims of war.

This is who we are. Human nature is ruled by greed. We’ll scorch the grass and dirt in search for gold. The green of money means more than the green of Earth.

So why do we act like we hate chaos? We love fire as long as it’s not too close. Water is cool until it becomes too deep. What I’m saying is, we love violence.

It’s a spectacle. A way of coming to age. To be man. To be God. To be anything other than what we are now. What death brings is change. We cannot rebuild anything that isn’t already in ruins.

Think about it: the world is burning. Literally, burning. And I’m not just talking about global warning. Or, the onslaught of destruction that spreads across this nation and outside it.  

Even California is being plagued with fire. It’s like the prettier the green, the brighter it burns. All this devastation and we’re still looking for the scapegoat.

So let’s blame the sun. How dare it shine without giving us warning? Or even asking for our permission? What makes us human is how we can take a thing and make it do what we want it to.

Even if it goes against its own design.

Instead of spending billions of dollars on solar energy, we’ll build weather machines. That way, we can make the sky do as we please. Who cares if we abuse the o-zone layer?

The rain aren’t tears. Look at the clouds too long and you’ll never see a face. Not that we’d care if the sky can elicit genuine emotion. Science says, the sky is only blue because air scatters particles to make it that way. So blame the air too.

Surely, the earth has no feelings.

But let’s say the earth can somehow voice its depression. Foolish, I know. Still, let’s just for shits and giggles believe the earth should be taken care of.

We cannot be blamed for its suffering.

There’s always a scapegoat to be found. Just point to the sky and blame the clouds for its pollution. Yes you, Cumulonimbus cloud, how dare you turn a darker shade? Not even the sky owns the right to love its color.

Mother Earth or Mother Nature—still a woman. Emotions are a biological flaw and not what makes something human. It’s always that time of the month. Say women are prone to be too emotional and then we can ignore it.

But have you heard the saying, Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned. The irony of that particular quote. To see all this fire and not think “yeah, maybe there’s some truth to it.”

Still, there’s no reason to fear. We’ve learned to tame fire like a dog domesticated of its animal. As soon as we put fire into a gun, we craved war. It’s stupid to fear what cannot kill us, right?

That is, until that gun is pointed into our own heads. Now, we want to control the gun and not the hand holding it. It’s similar to what we want of the sky. To control its air and not the pollution we created.

#poetry

What the Mirror Echoes When We Scream Into it

thoughts are twisted, searching for a god
in the starkest mirror. since scars tell a story,
a novel was scripted of the author’s intentions.

flaws & addictions hidden behind walls to shield
a frost-bitten heart from years of wallowing
in sorrow—
an infliction that I caused.

the reflected image causes this memory lost.
It’s like I picture myself calm, then grab a camera,
damage the lenses, darken the pigment & blot
every pixel with pencils until it looks cryptic,
scarring your vision.

this is the terrorist battle fought between soul
& mind where I rebel against
a devil,
who sent legion of demons into my head.

& still I wait for this hell to unravel,
as madness rages against my soul
every smile buries my face.

psychotic laughter turns chaotic
as if my own voice is tortured
even the world turns different,
distorted, distant—

coiled & contorted into a shape
I morph earth into with my own fingers.

dreamers like us are always considered
insane—left imprisoned in a system.
belittled & condensed

feeling tense facing intense ridicule waiting
for pretenses to change.
rumor has it that looking towards the future
is tragic. this can ruin the fabric of time itself.
& I’m aware

this heart on your sleeve is only there to disguise
any loss of pride you felt. no one cares
about emotions untouched.

all we know of the ocean is the blue
of its surface. only those who don’t fear drowning
look deeper. so how can we learn?
what’s the benefit of experience being a good teacher
when we choose ignorance?

war on a battlefield only worsens
when anger kills every thought that is anchored,
reveals a broken person—or a weapon built
of ego—a dagger is how we hold this burden—
why we turn our bodies into garden of Eden
to scold the serpent? An act of rebellion,
shows the purpose of why we exist. 

& the ocean becomes an abyss  
we hope submerges into us. we name things
to make them smaller, to see ourselves taller,
but gold is worthless when its compared
to the sun—
becomes foolish not to fear the bullet
when you carry the gun—
this is how I know a god is what I’m scared to become.