randomly cluttered

The sun waved hi The morning you bid goodbye; Felt like nothing and everything Changed at the same time. As the hospital woke up, You had fallen asleep. As they wheeled you out the door, I counted all the promises I failed to keep. Relatives were notified. Not a tear in my eye. Parched heart beating slow, Feeling restless but I got nowhere to go. Did you lie next to your body? Did you watch me as I packed? Did you visit your favorite places? Did you think of going back? Did you hear my I love yous? Did you notice the weather that day? Did you soak in the sun, had your fun, Before you finally went on your way? Documents were processed. Memories were accessed. Your last dress was bought, Your last moments rethought. While the country commemorated the bravery Of those who marched to reclaim our democracy, A silent song rose within me — A remembrance of what was and what is meant to be. For nothing is bolder than to love courageously In the face of certain uncertainty. And from that moment...

Photo by Jun on Unsplash Grieving is for the living; the dead passes on  while we're stuck. There's only so much grief  that the heart can entertain. Life is a sad broken track. We process it differently,  but we go through it just the same. There's no ounce of growth to be had,  when we're all wallowing in its crippling pain. Grief emancipates. Grief imprisons. Grief rises and sets. Grief has seasons. Grief is a moving target. Grief is an empathetic pet. Grief breathes life and robs for the wrong reasons. Grief is a pit in your stomach. Grief is a whirlpool in the sea. Grief is an abandoned shipwreck. Grief is a lovely company. Grief is a journey. Grief is wheeled with the gurney. Grief is a whisper to the void. Grief is an AI powering an android. Grief darkens. Grief glimmers. Grief forgets and then remembers. Grief connects. Grief divides. Grief reflects. Grief provides. Grief grows with us until the end. When it leaves, Grief becomes our last friend. Grief trans...

  When in doubt, always chase clout. Dreams are overrated. My running has borne me no fruit, only callouses around the ankle, and a bad knee to boot. Maybe in the next life I'll be born into a family of millionaires. No need to hurry up. Eventually, I will get there. For now, making it viral, starting out dramas, spewing out controversies, being at the right place and at the right time is the only place to be. Capitalizing on controversies is one of my specialties—  manufacturing fake news with headlines that are clickbaity. I'd rather lose social points than vanish into oblivion. In truth, we're all fame whores, who want nothing less, only more. Or am I the only one? You can't cancel me. I'll rise like the phoenix, you'll see. From the ashes of someone else's reputation, I'll become your worst enemy. Horny for attention. Oh, I forgot to mention: Celebrity deaths warm my heart. Ratioed to pieces. You thought I wouldn't own it? Guess, I have mastered ...

Photo by Jose Losada on Unsplash Wake up at 4, head straight out of the door. Don't want to die poor, I'd rather struggle and suffer more. Lifting weights at the gym, taking all my reps in. When I'm done with the treadmill, I want my legs to melt and cave in. Back at home, I'll make sure the water is freezing, so it can numb the pain of my corporate toiling. Ate my breakfast, nourished and full, now I am brimming. Took down notes, too early for work, ready for the draining. Galvanized and inspired for another day of running. The Long Walk who? This one's more entertaining. Work-life balance? That's a sham. Capitalism? We're all big fans! Facebook, LinkedIn What's the difference? Twitter, IG or is it just me? Everyone's busy building their legacy. Hustle culture? I'll stop when I'm older. Running empty? Your career, babe, is not a personality. Passion is overrated. Working hard and smart sounds the same. Life begins after retirement. Like lov...

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash When I'm feeling down or spiraling out, I remember the things I've forgotten about. So I came up with a list to remind myself why I exist, why I should resist, and why I must persist. It's nothing new, just a paragraph or two, to ground me back to reality when everything is hazy. What makes me happy is not the excess of money. But let's be honest, without it the list would be half-empty. A good book A cup of hot coffee A long walk A lighthearted movie A smooth run A new song from your favorite artist The view of the sun as it trails along the Earth's axis Deep conversations Shallow jokes A heavy downpour on a summer's day Long drives with your person to nowhere or somewhere far away A happy memory to reminisce A lovely poem such as this Your cat curling around your feet Your dog enjoying a piece of treat Your mother's smile makes everything worthwhile. Your lover's touch makes life easier enough. Fresh sheets Dry s...

Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash When there's a disconnect Between what you do and who you claim to be Chances are you're a hypocrite Celebrities left and right Have earned deservedly the public ire But not as much and as recent as Toni G You might think she has had the Bible Memorized, put to heart Through and through On that stage as she welcomed the person Who'd epitomize the decline of her values Plans to cancel her stormed the social seas For now it has been proven true How ones virtues get corrupted and depreciated With the brandish of a signature or two Left her show She's on her own Now unbothered She remained deeply unfazed In the past she would have fought the good fight But now her priorities have changed Blood is thicker than water Believe her She's now closer to God than she'll ever be But when actions are muffled by ones loyalty You'll stand tall, bruises and all with your hypocrisy

Photo by Alex Sherstnev on Unsplash Numbed by the pain of merely existing, I explore the confines of my soul and found nothing  which resembled to the joy I felt  in the beginning, when my life blossomed and bloomed and my heart beat for the joy of living. What I found, although not surprising, was a shell of a person  surrounded by his life which now lay in ruins. Pieces of memories beyond fixing, shattered by the weight of darkened imaginings. The rose-colored glasses I wore--- the one I had before--- is strewn and decimated all over the floor.

Photo by Shiromani Kant on Unsplash "Carve out time, work on your strengths, and be your authentic self," said the author with the book on how to grow one's wealth. "Work on your craft, keep a journal, and see what happens." I've been doing those, but it hasn't given anything more than what it has taken. "It's about setting a systematic way of reaching your goals." Then, what? Follow it and lose all sense of control? "You can learn more if you take this $250 course." Will it just reinforce all the things I already know but from a costly source? "If you follow these steps, success is in your hands." But what really is success if not clarity with a plan? "Work hard, hustle harder and you'll get there." I'll get where? To financial freedom and existential despair? "Success is a state of mind. Claim it and it's yours, manifest it all the time." "The process is more important than the jo...

Photo by Paulina Šleiniūtė on Unsplash When I was young, my mother wanted me to become a priest. "It's easier to get to heaven," she said. "And when I die, you can ask God to send me straight there." When I was young, I thought happiness meant a family of your own.  But when my mother died, that changed. I finally understood. I couldn't imagine inflicting the same pain and grief I endured on my own child. When I was young, I was told that my father died because he forgot to breathe in his sleep. But when my mother realized I was old enough to understand, I learned from her the truth: Yes, people die in their sleep; Some forget to breathe, while others choose not to wake up. When I was young, death was a place people go to visit---a room with an entrance but without any exit. "Your father is on a vacation," my mother would say. "When he'll be returning, well, I don't know which day. When I was young, it was easier to love in reckless a...

Photo by NordWood Themes on Unsplash If there was a year I regret not enjoying, some years might come close, but not as close as 2019. The last normal year we all took for granted, before 2020 came and brought with it the pandemic. In 2021, we thought it would all be done. How dejected we all felt to be proven wrong. Now, we’re all looking back with wistful fondness, on the year that could have been filled with so much happiness. But life’s worries have hindered us to enjoy the “now.” Back when we thought 2019 was worse, it wasn’t, somehow. Now, we’re still stuck at home, isolated and depressed, distracting ourselves with lies to avoid the truth we’re afraid to confess. In 2022, will it be too good to be true? If the pandemic were to end, can we start all over again? Or will we live life regretting we didn’t have it that bad? Back when we thought 2020 would be better, 2019 was all we had.

  Photo by Denisse Leon on Unsplash Antiseptic. The smell of alcohol clung in the air. A cloud of white sheets filled the room with dread and despair. A sea of strangers tending to lumps of bones and meat. Some are killing time, while others are losing sleep. Red balloons frozen in midair, tied to hands of atrophied humans. Telescopic implements inserted through ailing cavities. Delaying the inevitable, but prolonging the suffering. Ghosts floating from one ward to another, losing patience and patients, trying to keep themselves together. In the early hours of the day, Death visits to take one or two away. Cries peal out loud enough to wake the dead, who are now being wheeled out to another steel bed.

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash Pain ends. Love ends. Life ends. I could not live another 100 years in this realm. I could not live another existence in this realm. The beauty of life is that it ends. For some it may be quick, to others, unjustifiably long. The beauty of life is like that of a song. It ends. The tyranny of time makes everything rhyme. The beauty of life is like that of a line. It ends. To wish for immortality is to ask for a life of agony. The beauty of life is like that of a story. It ends. Death is the end, but life must go on. The beauty of life is like that of a poem. It ends.

Photo by Jeff James on Unsplash In the next 18 years or so... Will a kid blame me for having them out of my own selfish desires?  Or will I die alone in my bed and still wonder why? Will my parents live long enough to see me succeed?  Or will I become an orphan begging for love in the streets? Will global warming finally be the end of everything?  When mother nature claims what is rightfully hers, will the world begin to heal? Will my dreams take shape, will they assume form in some way? Will they see the light of day when I take them with me in my grave? Will society collapse, will a war happen soon? Will conspiracy theories carry weight, like the first man on the moon? Will my faith save me when my time on earth is done? When I reach the pearly gates, will there even be someone? Will there be hell or heaven on the other side of this?  Will we be judged in the end or be given a chance to re-exist? Is everything a simulation, are aliens even real? When Earth is gone...

Photo by Mukuko Studio on Unsplash What is home, if not a place of warmth? A refuge from the storm, a fortress from any harm? Home is where the heart is, most people will say. But is there anything more deceiving than a vagabond heart that doesn't know where to stay? Will a lifetime of searching lead us to that magical place? Or will we realize it's just an illusion to keep our demons at bay? Where we lay our head to sleep, where we keep our dreams alive, where everything makes sense even when the world is on fire, where our heart is nourished, where our soul is full, where there's room for everyone no matter where you come from... That feels like home. That is our home.

Photo by Benjamin Balázs on Unsplash At last the day has finally come to bid my farewells and then move on from this cruel world that I have come to know, from this life that I have built on my own, to the darkness, to the nothingness that has been my friend. Another life or eternity? No one knows the end. Have I collected memories enough to light the way of the journey I will now take beyond my rotting grave? Have I loved enough or have I been a fool, to push away people to protect my very soul? Have I   done enough? Was it all for show? Living life with this line: You will reap what you sow. Have I lived truthfully, have I been my truest self? Knowing that if I did I would still end up in hell. Have I prepared enough? Has it all been for naught? For my life to end with purpose after starting as an afterthought. Is it time yet? Am I ready to go to embody the emptiness that has eaten me whole? Will they remember me even after I’m gone? Because the battle left within me is the figh...

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash There is something to be said about the joys of deep cleaning. Surprising how such a mundane and menial task can be so alluring. Scrubbing off dirt, peeling off rust. Sweeping off floors, taking out trash. Mopping off stains, wiping off dust. Chlorine and water is the only concoction I trust. A physical release of that tension from within? I can’t seem to fathom how therapeutic such a task has been. Though my hands ache from the toil and my body complains from its physicality; my mind wants t o  do it all over again, because of the high and its spirituality. The illusion of control, something I find so comforting, distracting me from the impending doom — the end I’ve been avoiding.

Photo by Ann Savchenko on Unsplash A goal set in a distant future to keep me going, to keep me secure. A routine to follow be it night or early morn, to create a semblance of normalcy from what has been gone. A distraction, an escape, that outweighs the respite sleep provides. Anything means everything now, to someone looking for reasons this world can only justify.