i envy the mothers

i envy the mothers
i envy their cups that nurtured these lives
i envy their arms that carried these weight
of miracle, unleashed by the heavens

i envy the mothers
i envy the lips that soothes those ears
i envy the cheeks that brushed those fingers
of lightness, cradled by the cosmos

i envy the mothers

i envy her life
i envy her dream
i envy the child that thrives with her kiss

Friday the 13th

It's friday the 13th, and I feel lucky! All of a sudden all the papers in my desk started to disappear. After a week of sleeplessness, I finally spent more than five hours in bed. After being moneyless for the past three days, I finally got my pay. Yipee!!! Hope my Friday the 13th luck would not run out tonight, after all, I still have seven hours of work. What to do? Surf? I can't believe I can have the time to surf!!! This so SAYA!


P.S.

This is my third week in BATCH GROUP. This is the first time I was able to go online and not be worrying of all my pending work.

Dreaming Insomiac

I've always thought of myself as an insomiac. A creature of the night. The being who is filled with life when everyone else is in deep slumber.

I've been like this for ten long years. I have learned to live with the stigma and the thrill of being one the few who are empowered by the night.

But when the night becomes day, and the popular insomiac is still up, that's a different story. That is pure insanity. And that's what's happening to me right now. I simply couldn't sleep. I have counted two nights and one and a half day, and i'm still up. My head is spinning, my temples are throbbing and my stomach is turning. The creature became a miserable and writhing entity whose sanity is slipping ever tick of the damn clock.

I now proclaim, that insomiacs do dream in their awakened stupor. I felt that dream.

I dream of sleep.

When Tablets Burn

Would you take the Blue Pill or the Red Pill?

Don't take any and you'll writhe in pain for the rest of the day. Take one and the pain may either go or morph into another type of illness. I chose to take the pill. The gray one.

I went over the cupboard. Took the white bottle with a red cap and green bold prints in front. I gingerly applied pressure on the cap before twisting it. I peeked and moved the bottle sideways, counting the few tablets left. Some where sticking at the bottom, the others slid to the side. I tipped the bottle towards me, my other hand cupped beneath it and waited for the slow moving tablet to reach the palm of my hand. And with one fluid motion I tossed it into my mouth, took a swig of water and pushed the pill back into my throat.

The walls started to look like belly dancing ladies and the floor started looking like cavernous water holes. Then I realized, I shouldn't have taken the pill...

When Peter Pan Flew Across My Room

The first story I ever told my godchild was that of Peter. There's just something about that story that made me want to tell it to a child. I'm not a fan, and no, I've never really liked that story. But there was one thing that made me believe his name and story would be relevant to my life.

Almost every night, after school, I would carry her out and point at the sky, telling her stories of Neverland with lost boys playing with pixies and a particular watch-hunting croc. I'm sure she no longer remember those times. And I'm sure she never really understood what I was telling her, she was only 2 years old at that time.

Never would I imagine that I was not actually telling her a story, but it was I who was listening to my own mindless narrative. It was I who was looking for him at night, hoping that he was not just a name within the stories. It was I who wanted to see him.

Years passed and I entirely forgot about the small talks that my godchild and I had at nights long ago. I've stopped looking at the night sky. I stopped thinking of the boy who can fly. Until one day, before my 20th birthday, I met him for real.

His name is not Peter. It's not even close. And no he's not from Neverland. But he taught me how to fly. Oh yes, I flew like crazy. I would creep out of my bedroom window every night and travel to places I've never been before. He would fly by my window at dawn with gifts and promises. He taught me to laugh heartily and he taught me to have fun. He taught me that life is not to be taken seriously and he taught me how beautiful this life could be.

He was more than I ever thought he would be. And the good thing about it all is that he's not a myth but a real person I can be with, share lunch with, watch movies with and hold hands with. But just like in the story, Wendy needed to leave, Peter needed to fly back to Neverland, and that was how I lost him.

I wish he can come back, I wish he decides to stay, I wish he can grow old just like me. But I think, he will never be ready.

Under the Acacia Tree

I used to walk under the rows of acacia trees. I still remember their wide tree trunks lining the sidewalk, branches reaching across the streets and leaves hanging above me.

I remember the time when I was walking under them. I felt so lost back then, unsure of myself and untrusting with everyone else. People would pass by, each with a different expression on their pallid faces. Some would nod at me, others would stare away. There was one who looked me right in the eye as if trying to fathom what my childish mind has to offer. But he failed. Because that same morning before I went out walking, I stared at myself in the mirror and looked as hard as I can, but all I saw was an empty stranger staring back with an expressionless face.

After looking at the passers-by, I decided to be one of those who stare away. I don't want anyone to look me in the eye again, and so I looked away. My passive attention was caught by the passing cars. One car, two, three, red, blue, gray. I lost myself again. I suddenly woke up from my stupor when the sun hastily slapped my face, sending me in blinding heaven. After a second or two, I started to see greens, then yellows, then some blues, and then I knew, I'm no longer under the care and protection of those lovely acacia trees.

I looked back, wishing that I can turn back and walk under them again. But I can't. I need to walk away or else, I'll be forever imprisoned. I may be a stranger to myself, but I realized at that moment that the only time I will learn to know who I really am is when I start walking across unfamiliar paths, when i start feeling the scorching heat of the sun, and when i finally learned to look people in the eye, unafraid that they'll someone I've always longed to see. And so stopped my daily walk under those magnificent trees.

I'll go back one day. Maybe when I have the courage to face that man who looked me straight in the eye. Maybe I can even smile at him next time.