shutupandlisten

Images of the Deity

Appear before my eyes

like divine signs

Echoing a distant love

Closer to reality

than it could ever be.

I love these images.

I love the Deity even more.

She loves to sleep
It’s the only time she floats in nothingness
No sadness to consume her
No happiness to overwhelm her
No fears to overcome
No norms to conform to
A place where time is but a concept
Reality is bent
And will is just waiting to happen
A place where everything’s twisted
And she’s ok with that.

~The Deity

Stellar
Incubus

Meet me in outer space
We could spend the night

watch the earth come up

I’ve grown tired of that place

won’t you come with me
We could start again
How do you do it?
Make me feel like I do

How do you do it
It’s better than I ever knew
Meet me in outer space
I will hold you close
if you’re afraid of heights
I need you to see this place

it might be the only way that

I can show you how it feels to be inside of you
How do you do it?

Make me feel like I do
How do you do it?

It’s better than I ever knew
You are stellar.

There is a plant. It’s out in the cold. But it
appears to brave the weather. Believing that no winter lasts forever, it awaits
the first light of the sun to shine down on its dying leaves. The sun is a
star.

There is a star. It looks like a Deity from afar.
It is a Deity. The sky is a big blanket littered with billions of stars. At
night, the sky looks even brighter. The stars are watching.

There are billions of stars. Yet, between them is
an empty space vast enough to swallow the lives of all men. There is one plant
willing to be swallowed by that empty space. It is willing to uproot itself and
transcend the boundaries that seem to tie it back to the lonely ground where it
cannot even begin to reach with its leaves the proverbial warmth of the sun. It
wants to get close to the star, to the sun. It will brave all burns.

There are billions of stars. Yet, between them is
an empty space vast enough to swallow the lives of all men. It must be lonely
up there.

And it’s lonely down here, too.

    It was sweeping in from both sides,
and the feeling of pushing against the rest of the world hit me deep, as if
bullets were piercing right through. That moment of confusion was mercilessly
beyond description, and all I was able to settle for were words that spun
around my mind like an indelible imprint of what seemed to be the start of the
end. But the world is changing, and so things are meant to change as well. Yet
for some reason, while the rest of humanity trouble themselves with the
changing seasons and tides and everything else that go beyond the grasp of
fatefulness, there are several things that will remain, let alone remain true
to what they have been right from the start. And far more reassuring is that a
few of these few things will not be tampered nor be taken away by time and the
cruelty of human forgetfulness.

    Several things change for several
reasons. Some of these reasons are, perhaps, dignified by their own merit,
while some are haplessly blown by the wind, never to return and make itself be
felt again. So they swept me off, hurling from both sides. Reasons to the right
and reasons to the left, some coming from the top while some pushing in from
below, and in virtually every direction, reasons were flooding my
consciousness. So I thought some things do really have to change for some
reason, but apparently some reasons aren’t just acceptable, nor are some
palatable enough for the mind to mince.

    When something comes back, it comes
back for a reason. And what other reason could there be than that something
must’ve been constantly changing, failing to figure out what exactly in the
world that thing is hoping for, or dying to hope for, or dying for, whichever.
Rolling stones gather no moss. Roll if that thing must, but if it comes back to
where it once came from, then perhaps it has no sense of direction at all.

Dream. Believe. Survive. Three superficial words that have spawned an ocean of dry souls thirsting for the blinding light of stardom.

Waging for another shot at popularity, the backbones of the reality television show—or pseudo-reality television show for this matter— have returned to the land of the living dead. These very same organizers are perhaps the very epitome of dogmatism and popular belief in the strictest sense. They claim that they were able to create a whole sky of stars when in fact all it did was to blanket the heavens with a parody of an entire galaxy, eventually hiding from our vision the real stars. They’re turning foolishness into a heroic act, one that pretends to salvage innocent minds from the dregs of the world. It’s as if we owe them the expanse of the universe. These are fucking metaphors alright, but hell with it. Hesitant and handicapped minds would not be getting much of the gist.

It is ironic how people admire artificial stars molded from an obsolete and misshapen casket when all along they were looking at false icons wearing masks of shiny filth that luster-out an appalling grimace for the critical mind. The carnival of faces makes me fart my ass off, and raise my finger as a sort of a gesture right after the climax so as to further pin my utter disbelief.

I strongly despise the fatal vision of such a blind system, of how wretched souls imitate what they cannot even seem to understand, of how they make numb clowns out of themselves, of how such an absurd and distorted perspective do not seem to alarm the people, of how this crude fashion of parading flesh before the altar of the Utopia does not seem to choke our stream of consciousness; of how many hopeless dreams have passionately embraced the invisible promise of fame and fortune—the killer myth that has deceived and murdered gullible minds.

I am raising my finger as a grand salute to the success of the show. It has done such a good job at containing the minds of the people in a single jar, jamming them altogether like gelatin, moving to the command of those who have a grip on the bottle. I am raising my finger as a symbol for my unsuppressed wildfire, like a toast to the grandeur of the program, for carving magnificent dung out of bare flesh and blood, like a sculpture shoved right in the middle of nowhere exuding a wonderful smell.

Breathe it like oxygen sifting through the tunnels of your lungs and then tell me if it does not stink at all. If it does, then, my friend, welcome to the real world.

I say these things not out of envy for I do not envy mere social constructs, hallucinations caused by an addictive social drug, seeking to bury hapless budding seeds beneath a shallow grave nestled among the soils where madness is for all eternity. I do not envy these for they are not even worth the envy. It’s just that I pity those who try to target the stars when all along they already belong to the same sky. Fucking metaphors. But who gives a damn. The stars are all fucked-up now.