Particular Moments

More Stars than There are

Tag: journaling

Genre Jump

After my first formal attempt—after years of desiring after it, to give myself a full haircut, this is how the person in the mirror responded:


1) There will never be a shortage of barbers.

2) For those who dared themselves time after time to cut their own hair, you have my deepest respect: the trials and tribulations are unfathomable to me, personally.

3) My barber and I do not speak the same language; it used to agitate me greatly; yet, at the end of the day, I cannot live without her (Vanity? No. Loyalty.)

4) If you are new to cutting your own hair, make sure you do not have to get up early for work the next morning.

Lost In Days

How often do you pause to conclude and reexamine? Ignorance is bliss, but it is just as miserable—what sorrow one must unknowingly live through, not making introspects at all?

It’s for you; it’s for me; it’s for them: the key phrase here is “at all.”

Days flow by and leave like the breeze, so barely palpable that one is left unsure—did the days, seemingly consumed, really exist at all?

You see your days slip past the deceivingly narrow gaps between your clumsy fingers—how does it feel, to have control yet none at all?

Amidst eager desires, did you inadvertently neglect being upright and functional?

That’s how it happens, you, seized and trapped by the anticipation of it all, so much so, that what unwinds leave you no satisfaction at all. Always on the lookout, seeking to gain in the future, and the future is no longer yours, but then merely a prolonged nuisance that cause you to furrow your brows.

Finding Reassurance in Malady

Among the various ironies in the human conditioning, is its inability to possess prolonged defiance against toils–swap a pauper’s shack for a throne, and soon he forgets how to make ends meet with nothing.

After years not stricken by discomforting sicknesses,  I have gone soft against the debilitating elements of a disease. The headache and extreme malaise have overcome me; for the past week, each morning has been a hell of suffocating punishments.

I found my physical strength disobeying me; my mind has settled for weakness, unwilling to command the body to do anything.

What does one do

When frailty rules?




You have to say to yourself, with great and unfaltering confidence, that

“My body is stricken, my mind is feeble, but my SOUL is strong.”

When all earthly hope is lost, confide in the metaphysics.


Someone once said somewhere during sometime,

“In dreams begin responsibilities.”

Was it W.B. Yeats?




Start by dreaming,

Envisioning your coming around.


That is vaguely the point,

You have to forge with the greatest, most indestructible ore

The true nature of what constitutes you

That which no man or woman or virus or bacteria or fungus or parasite

Can ever take away.


They can corrode and rot your body

But they cannot mend your soul.


Keep that in mind,

Stay in motion,

And stick to a sound treatment plan.

So Comes Bed Time

Oh Yes,

We surely have spent

This Daylight

Thinking of

And preparing for

The new Dawn—


All the Grit

And hardy Sweat


Rebelling against

The Eternal Doubt of

No Tomorrow.


Inescapable lures;

Deflated mornings.


I’m afraid

That I shall never break free,

Uncuffed from crippling yearning,

Emancipated from the cage of

Forever falling.


Innocence besmirched

By those who criminalize,

Prosecute and Villainize

The conjured up,

Perverted me.



In blind contempt,

They know not

That I am Purity,


Too bright,

Too shrouded

For them to face

And realize.


The Only Drug.

“You love playing with that. You love playing with all your stuffed animals. You love your Mommy…your Daddy. You love your pajamas. You love everything, don’t ya? Yeah…But you know what, buddy? As you get older, some of the things you love, might not seem so special anymore. Like your Jack-in-a-Box. Maybe, you’ll realize that it’s just a piece of tin and a stuffed animal. And the older you get, the fewer things you really love. And by the time you get to my age, maybe it’s only one or two things—with me, I think it’s one.” 

                                                                                                                                                            —Staff Sergent William James speaking to his infant son. The Hurt Locker.

Only Human

There are moments

When goodness turns into malice

And fair intent sours.

During these brief moments,

I am

On occasions,

Crazed, eyes blood shot

On Thirst,

Bent on achieving not some,

But grudgingly

All the satisfactions.


So I turn to the Dark,

To the face of damnation.

And I see in the sinister

A terrible,



From which arises

The careless power

To quench my crooked needs—


To be the Golden Apple

Atop the highest pinnacle—

Divine, poisonous,

Rotten, and ageless;

Desired by all

And fatal—


Thus, I take a sip

From the deadly well.

And Soon,

I am overcome

By a restless adrenaline

Immense to the point of



Suddenly, it is revealed to me

Just what a thrill it can be

To put on the Devil’s facade

And play the laughing wicked.


I decide to take to the slaughter,

And Oh!

How are they so belittled!

As if a gentle “tap,”

And they are torn apart!




I move closer—


Seeing this lot,

These lambs to be butchered,

Standing and grazing there—

Mostly unwary;

Some a nuisance;

Some even vicious.




Regardless of the little good

And much foolishness I see,

They are all familiar,


More or less

Like me—

Undeniably human, limited,

And only so vile.


Then how could I strike down

The the ruthless sword

Knowing that I

Too am

Helplessly mortal

And bound to the ground?






There is a pair of cardinals that would pay their occasional visits to the backyard. Though I am not entirely sure of their flight routines, I am aware that their appearances seem to be bound by a periodic pattern—the details concerning its particular time intervals have always eluded me.

With agile and energetic maneuvers, the two birds would glide up and down among the tree branches and garden furnishings. And because of the vibrant red-orange of their feathers, one can hardly take his/her eyes off them anytime they are anywhere in sight.

Today, for the first time this year, I had the fortune to see these lively, magnificent creatures again. With winter nearly to its rear and spring yet to have sprouted it first buds, at a glance, the yard is still in shades of withered, yellowish-gray. This made the winged guests especially eye-catching, for their fiercely bright coats sharply contrasted the stark hues of their surroundings.

Having spent most of the day like a ghoul, the sight of these cardinals brought forth relief, coupled by a sudden change of heart; their presence rebelled against and defied all that has perished outside: desiccated stretches of grass, leaf-less, snarled trees, and naked dry earth—all void of any vital sign. Yet there they were, alive and in flight amidst the dead, like messengers of Hope, delivering a kindred torch of life to the ones still living in bleak times.

Talk To Get By

I am doomed to not know the Silence

That I desperately need to find—

Even in this strangely isolated, luxurious place,

There rings an irreducible noise in my head—


Which for most of the time,

Hums like a muffler,

Drowning out all the fine things

That could be otherwise verbalized.


But every now and then,

This Droning would up itself several notches,

And become various buzzings of the uttermost

Jarring and painful kind—


Rendering me handicapped,

So that I should Speak peculiar, alien sounds—


Impaired to divulge;

Failing miserably to even identify

What was it

That I originally intended to clarify.

“It’s Free” Rain

And then came the deluge–following an endless brooding–and everything was once again, alright. The past two months of suffocating and over-baked habitat of this town had received its reprieve, and became livable.

But what’s home? Everywhere and Nowhere–there are those who are obliged to constantly endure, adapt, and overcome the unfavorable. And this so called harbor of discomfort in the eyes of the pampered, by comparison, suffices far more than what’s required of a safe haven for the less fortunate.