Hologram Mausoleum

Just another nothing

Patience, and the willingness to take notice of, and celebrate, even the smallest triumphs is the only way. Distance running is my metaphor of choice, because there are times along the trail when every single step is a gift. When giving up seems not only justifiable, but logical. Prudent, even. And the only way to continue is to simply keep moving, and to be thankful for every step. That’s typically the low point…and that’s precisely when things begin to turn around. Unless we give up.

At a time when things seem to be all wrong in so many ways, when there’s so much we need to overcome – each of us, all of us – giving up can’t be an option. Change doesn’t happen in the blink of an eye, but it won’t happen at all until we begin. Somewhere.

Gone Are The Words

They come and go and have gone again. It’s a game of much consequence that I often play with too little respect. There’s more at stake than an empty page. Even so, what’s one blank page?

Sometimes only that. But other times it’s the desolation found in the aftermath of the disaster that, while sudden and tragic, could have been avoided. Not easily, maybe, but certainly just the same. That blank page, so recently a budding flower, now a fading memory of love and joy and life. Fading, but not forgotten yet. Tucked neatly away, accessible, if only just barely.

There’s no escape, though. No alternative. No place I might go where my lost words won’t haunt me. Where the burden of their nonexistence isn’t felt. Mr. Emerson was right. “My giant goes with me wherever I go”.

I read. I search for them. I cry when I see them written by someone else. But again I think of Emerson. “That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him”.

Broken can be fixed.
Long forgotten, remembered.
Fear, overcome.

One letter at a time, like a single pixel or dab of paint, revealing itself, mingling, cooperating. Coming home. Answering my call.

Yes Sir, I’m Not Okay

I spend a lot of time feeling as though I ought to be doing something else. Something more. Like I’m wasting time, filling my days with folly. Admittedly, I’m not as productive as I could be. And my days are not full of toil. Have I failed, then? Is this cause enough to feel guilty? Seems so. Though perhaps there’s another way of looking at it. I have few possessions and nothing in the bank. But if, by sheer force of will and more than a little luck, I can forget about all the other things I should be doing, all the productivity and toil I might yet engage. If for the briefest of moments I can overcome the guilt I feel on account of my shortcomings, it’s long enough to glimpse it. Happiness. In the simple things. Sun-dried saltwater on my shoulder. Time enough to talk with the people I love, to see and to admit my mistakes, and to plan for my own improvement. The critical thinking that always leads to a new perspective. The budding suspicion that broken things don’t always require fixing. Yes, happiness. Hardly an end in itself, I know. Not when there’s so much work to be done…

Bisakah kita kehilangan tanpa pernah memiliki, nona? Andai kita berpisah, pastilah karena kematian telah mengisi rongga dadaku. Sebab di langit mana pun kita berada, bulan masih tetap sama, dan kalender-kalender yang bertanggalan, seperti helai dedaunan—- terlepas begitu saja dari ranting. Perjalanan seringkali tampak asing. Jejak sepatu kaca, yang sengaja kau tinggalkan, kerap tak terbaca. Dan gigil palem, menawarkan kesepian yang lebih buruk dari cuaca.  Aku tahu, aku tahu keberadaanku yang jauh dari sempurna bikin matamu sakit, tetapi hatiku yang tak mengenal rasa sakit mencoba tabah melebihi semua gegabah yang sering kulakukan. Andai kita berpisah, pastilah karena bulan di langit sudah tak sama. Angin malam, gerak bayangan di remang taman, dan sebuah lampu di tengah kolam melengkapi musim; Aku tergeletak. dadaku retak.