To Speak
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
♥ Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The cardinal principle underlying the law of silence states that what is unsaid is always as important, if not more, than what is. This is because what I feel is definitely more than what I can say.
I'll say that the architectures of a perfect smile, begins by postulating itself on the planks of two perfect dimples. I'll say that these contours would gradually ascend to eyes that gaze in wonder of Life's treasures and the world's mysteries. I'll say that each smile is different and perfect on its own. For every angle, casts a different vision of happiness, that can only be expressed in its irresistible uniqueness. Even so, I am not doing justice to what I feel in response to this photograph taken. This photograph taken, that in a cliched expression, asks rhetorically, "a picture paints a thousand words, right?". Somethings cannot be said, and the beauty is to allow the unsaid to be.
The genie of silence must however be kept in its lamp, till the opportune moment. Our nature is entrusted with way too much to have that genie dictate the superfluous and misguided impressions that we incidentally convey. The misunderstood is borne from what is not said, rather than what is.
Life's too alienating as it is- the divisiveness of our arrogance, aloofness and ignorance prizes independence at the expense of communality. Against this, must we pick up our arms for our liberation. And believe me, we have the ammunition.
Like a ray that emerges from the horizon of thoughts, our speech illuminates all that it reaches and touches. And where at one point in time, ambiguity and vagueness shrouds the mind in blindness, with pristine clarity and lucidity it is now enveloped with. Can one express comprehensively what life and love is? perhaps not. But momentarily, with the brilliance of speech, is one given an opportunity to.
And perhaps that is all there is to be sought in this life. The nearing of the gap between who you are and who I am. To find, on a theatre of language, an act or character of sentiment is to know and feel that such sentiment resides not in one person alone, but common to all. But without the theatre and the gusto to tell, who would say? who would dare convey the personal when such communication involves the risk of ridicule? Life's a game of russian roulette and living means spinning the cannisters. Find the person who would dare you to speak. And when you find that person who's allowed you to, that's the diamond in the rough. Dont let go. That is the challenge today.
what makes a day perfect
Sunday, March 07, 2010
♥ Sunday, March 07, 2010
A perfect day begins with a situation of olympic proportions. A two kilometre sprint. And together with this event is its corollary- the grandeur and adrenaline of being a competitor. And because a perfect day is not defined only at its start but also by its end, the day must conclude with some sort of victory, some achievement or satisfaction. There must be at the end of that day, a trophy raised.
But that is an incomplete picture. And there can be no true appreciation without a true picture.
The true picture, in my perfect day, is everything that happens in between the get go to the finishing line. It is in the run that started off a little rough or the despair that came along with the fatigue that set in way too early. It is in the mental images and logical faculties that fail to persuade the mind that the journey can be made. It is in the timing that looks way too untenable and in the paralyzing exhaustion.
And it is then, that a miracle happens.
Nope its not gatorade, for goodness sake. Its something better. Its the large resonating voice of a person saying a prayer. The prayer that invigorates in its wisdom and its gentleness. The prayer that says "there is a font of strength that is beyond you, now reach for it, because it is yours." A prayer that asks, without doing so, "can I be present to you". And now the runner isnt running alone, neither is he running for himself and by himself. Now there are two, or three persons running by him and in him. There is a multiplication of efforts, a combining of energies. The quadriceps, somewhat bewildered by the origin of this extra burst, tighten with renewed vigour.
And then the finishing line, becomes a possibility. And then victory is within grasp.
But the trophy isnt all. The trophy is just an item costing no more than a handphone or watch. It is the smiles that the trophy brings, in the dinner table, with the handshake of a father and exhilarated siblings that plants the day deep into the heart of one's memory. It is anticipating the look on the person who prayed, when the gift is received that announces that the trophy is won, that gives that memory a profound joy. It is knowing that with every step of our lives, we take along with us, those persons who matter: their thoughts, their joys, their all.
veronica
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
♥ Tuesday, March 02, 2010
The earth, a formless void. A deep black that extends from the depths of eternity to the beyond of infinity. It is at 2 am that I switch off the lights. And the pitch black consumes and engulfs like an everlasting fog. A fog that like a hospice where a classmate lies, makes no cognizance of the time or day, with no promises of what tomorrow brings.
And what is being without the promise of tomorrow like? It is like being an object of rejection in the midst of a fist throwing crowd that has neither remorse nor sadness for the cruelty inflicted. It is the confusion of being welcomed with palm leaves in one instance, and being chased away while bearing the weight of a wooden cross in another. It is what makes one cry out "eli eli lama sabachtani".
A lady bursts forth from the crowd. She has nothing to offer apart from a white piece of linen. A white piece of linen against His face dripping red from the thorns enmeshed into his forehead is all she has to give. And maybe that is all that there is to give. No words to offer. Just a gesture. A gesture speaks in the language of love.
A language of love. What do we make of that these days? It is in that same hospice where a classmate lies, that a language of love echoes. It echoes through our caritas where we hear and understand. More importantly, when we feel. And it is felt by all of us who have now become, in the course of time different and unfamiliar with each other. Maybe on the road we might look past or through each other as absolute strangers. But a same history- of punishments like standing in the middle of the courtyard, of the principal we can never forget, of the all-too-familiar rotund- is something that we have to re-feel together. And feeling together and feeling with, is what two persons, estranged by the distance and duration of each other's absence, experience when they say "lets pray for him".
In a random manuever, I rest my hands on the blinds and through the gaps a warm orange glow from the street lamp seeps through. It seeps through and quietens the screaming silence of the darkness. And then, out of that formless void, there is light.
