Gecko Lizard

Despite the limitations of his parents' bed, the kid forces himself upon them. It isn't an intrusion of privacy. For them, it isn't too small anyway to accommodate their kid who has grown up tremendously, looking lengthy, and, perhaps, plumpy too. They welcome nothing but those childish yearnings they missed, however nonsensical and annoying they seem, and those narratives of his long journeys. Overwhelmed and rested, the kid sleeps soundly back to his little world, while never forgetting the gecko lizard peeping through the window. It is a rare moment of him being at home, at last.

Image: Cebu City, Philippines

Midnight Air

Just when I thought these presumably two grannies would only stay up late at night, chatting and laughing comfortably on a bench, lo and behold, they actually sleep on it! Strange. But, I want to believe they are not homeless when everyone has virtually a decent shelter here.

Rationalizing. Probably, all they want now is the company of cold air past midnight, and that's them not needing any blanket nor any jacket. Are they just resting for awhile, napping on the metallic? What is thinkable is just strange enough still.

And, if you could shift your eyes closer to the foreground, uncle has finally hit home.

Image: Toa Payoh, Singapore

Crafting a Destiny

Crafting one's destiny is an art. It goes to show that the hands that toil are anyhow inches closer to the work of any mind or heart. While some of it may seem like a long shot or keep you hard-pressed, sheer determination in the long run will prove to be invaluable. And equating that belief to faith, in this respect, will be unparalleled of a stroke.

Image: Kulai, Johor, Malaysia

Stranded in a Beginning

Chants storm their way out of dog-eared pages of books, and succumb to being every inch sensitive to ear. No way loud, no way muted, they are nothing but the seraphic hums that fill the soft air, in frequencies that calm the tempest raging inside a restless warrior. They are a prelude to a chorus to be repeated a thousand times over, like a prayer, and it knows no folly forever. And finally, the prized hope plucked from the very core out to the mantle of skin meets its beginning, a new life set before its cold feet.

The long journey resigns from its countless twists and turns. It now rests at the bosom of comfort, still, but discards stagnation. Drafted at the onset of a willing mind, it catches up with freedom brought forth by the red machinery riding on the crests and troughs inside the left rib cage.

Called upon through the silence of intention, attraction, charm, fascination, and trance, contour the landscape of a soul moved to finding its sole pair. The soul is made kinetic, knocked down by its own medicine, where doubts and reservations are cast to a thousand folds of oblivion, tossed upwards, and disappeared.

As soothing as any word uttered by your first kin, and as dulcet as the song on replay, the sweetest emotion forms out of mouth and is frozen in delicate time. It is the force behind the present state of the soul.

The future is up with bounty hidden in the garden of optimism. And will it ever be found in this lifetime? There begs to be no definite answer.

Luck compares itself to treasure buried beneath the deep trenches of the sea, or washed up on the unguarded, empty shore, shining under the harsh sun, on the loose, awaiting to be seized or repossessed. May it be found, may it be stranded, in the soul’s new beginning.

Image: Phuket, Thailand

A Cup of Honey Lemon Tea

Sitting on a ledge on top of the palace of dreams, gusts of wind slap my face solid with an invisible, animated mask, compelling my eyes to grasp less of the wide plains and my lips to unwittingly shape curves and crooked polygons.  But it is a joy. Bliss, the fuel to my veins, darts my heart pumping, and it starts from where the weather bears fruit of all that is good. At this elevation, I claim to be floating and flying wingless as the colugo leaps and glides from tree to tree.

As I turn forty-five degrees to my left, there is the hammock of lullabies, in its lucidity against the ageless sun, hums the mountain’s distant, forlorn songs and those melodies that echo paradise. At this very moment, the former is muted. The lovely music travels to my soul, caressing, reassuring, and healing every wound. I forget and move on as the saxophone plays on, the only instrument that can legally rob the violin of its the most romantic title. Induced to hear it, I close my eyes. Every note, every high, and every low, is emotion verbalized.

Captured by the fragrance that bleeds behind my back, I step diligently onto the immediate arc my feet can reach. Oh, the surprise of all wonderful surprises, the red roses in the garden beds smile at my already tickled look. Painted by the master of nature, they glisten beautifully and slowly pick up the music I hear. Nothing can be carelessly uttered, when all you know is that everything is right and perfect and sound and seamless.

Then the rain suddenly comes pouring down, as I become a poor fowl perching on some bare branch. It has been years since the last time I was this drenched, and it brings back good, old memories. I am far from ending this moment; the water is just beginning to taste as good as a cup of honey lemon tea.

Image: Singapore