Always Forever

"You are the love I need
You are the air I breathe
You are my love, my life, always forever." -Phil Wickham

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Why I Stopped

Since that one Monday morning, not that long ago, really, maybe 2 weeks, 3 weeks? I've been wondering what happened to me. Why I stopped. Functioning.

Somehow my mind has been caught in a frame that it cannot escape, like a frozen picture pond but underneath with all kinds of things whirling, dark things in waters trapped so that it can never see the sunlight.

I woke up one morning not knowing who I was or where I was, in fact not knowing who or where or what anything was. All I could see were the windows lit with white sunlight like clear gems stucked upon opaque white walls. And I woke up with white sheets wrinkled around me, a frail body and a mad mind. 


I did recognize that I was going to be late. No, in fact I was never going be there. Since I did not stop myself for work, work would stop itself for me. And the workaholic that I had become told me that this is the death of me. I must to be dying, only the dead do not work. 

Then I found myself in the hospital waiting to be seen, waiting for physiological results that would justify my going into shock and save my job, waiting for my sanity to return. But I only ended up staring at a blue painting on the wall. What I mean by blue painting is really more like a blue cloth. Well Mish who was with me said it was like a blue countertop. Except, I said, it got flip and is now pin up against a wall. Funny, a blue countertop stuck against a white opaque wall. I started to imagine martini glasses with fruit bits and umbrellas sticking out of the wall, the blue countertop I mean. It was really strange. But I realized that I was literally losing my mind, or maybe I was retrieving it since now I can imagine such ludicrous things as ... and, well, I lost my train of thought.

The point may be that I would read D. H. Lawrence poetry collection, and see this one called "Hibiscus and Salvia Flowers" in which he rants about the Communists, and I thought, yes! one moment, about the Communists, and then just stared at the Hibiscus and Salvia Flowers that were on the Communists' buttonholes. Of course, well they were imaginary of course. The Flowers and the Communists. Only I forgot that I was a Communist, so I really shouldn't have been yes! when D. H. Lawrence dissed the Communists, but maybe since they wre Italians, it wasn't as personal. Afterall, I'm very non-Italian. In fact, one Italian has made it on my hate list, and it's not even Mussolini.

So from that episode, I discovered that I was very angry about something. So much that I resonated with someone being angry at that which I had aligned myself with. Also I discovered that I was utterly fixated on something, something very beautiful and silent like the flowers. The flowers were dreadfully silent, and that was what made them beautiful in the first place. Only they die. Flowers die. And I was so afraid that something beautiful might die.

The moral of this experiment is, as I believe I'm finally beginning to understand after some days and nights of sobbing, screaming, hair-pulling, hysterical laughing at the mirror, and a combition of these, that something beautiful is dying in me. In fact, many beautiful things have already been dead inside me, and they have just lain there rotting on the floor of my dark soul like rose petals that have fallen and wrinkled up into black foul-smelling tissues of the untouchable nature. I started to play operatic music that soared against angry punk-rock percussions, like Yuki Kajiura's compositions.
Would you like to know what died inside of me? 

It's a secret I will tell you: it's a secret. Nobody knows. If I told you it wouldn't be a secret anymore would it? It is a secret what has died, and what is still dying. It is a secret of lost in translation, of years being abroad from home, of years without a mother, of years of ostracization, of years forced to speak a language not one's own--yet years still of loneliness--a language of one's oppressors, of years of being utterly utterly alone.

How many years exactly do you mean? You're exaggerating with the emotive anaphoras. I will tell you: it is 10 years. 

I am 20 years of age.

And yet this is not self-pitying. I only blame myself for not having the strength of heart to dissolve the bitterness. I have been hanging here, crucified for 10 years, and yet still unable to utter the words, "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do." How can you forgive an ocean? It cannot help being the distance between your home and you. It cannot help being that which inflicts an incurable nostalgia that gnaws inside your inner guts. It cannot help being the very thing that made you realize what's killing you is the longing for your true home, your Father God who has forsaken you, on this day when True Love died. 

This is the death of me. The darkened skies of my own Good Friday.

And in it, how I anticipate the peace of Easter Morning.





From 5 Centimeters Per Second


I stronlgy felt
that if I looked back now, she would look back as well.


Last night, I dreamed of something from the distant past.
Back when he and I were both still children.
I'm sure it's because of that letter I found yesterday.

...

Through the act of living itself, sadness piles up here and there.
Whether in the sheets hung to dry in the sun...
...the single toothbrush in your bathroom...
...or the history logs of your cellphone.

"Even now, I still love you..."
That's what the girl I'd been with for three years
said in that e-mail.
"But I'm sure that even if we had written
1,000 text messages back and forth..."
"...our hearts probably wouldn't have moved even 1 centimeter
closer."

Over these past few years, I've only wanted to move
forward and touch that which I couldn't reach...
...though I've never been able to tangibly define what it was.
Not knowing where these obsessive thoughts
came from, I simply continued to work.
Then one day I realized that my heart was withering,
and in it there was nothing but pain.
And then, one morning...
...when I realized that I had completely lost my
earnest and acute feelings from long ago...
...I knew I was at my limit...
...and quit my job.


Yesterday, I had a dream.
A dream of long ago.
Within the dream, the two of us were still thirteen...
...standing upon the vast field blanketd
in snow as far as the eye could see.
In the distance, the lights shimmering in
houses were set sparsely, far and wide.
All that was left upon the newly fallen snow were our footprints.
Just like that...
...we wished, without hesitation, that one day...
...the two of us would be able...
...to see the cherry blossoms together again.


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