Ropes

By the way, if this imports in to Facebook and you’re reading it from there, this post (and alot of my other notes) are from the blog I share with Kenneth Ho, called Reflectables.

I don’t post a lot, but when I do post, I’m usually thinking pretty heavily about something. So please, do head over to http://reflectables.wordpress.com to see all of the posts, and read the blog as it was meant to be read. =)

So today I was shuffling through songs on my beloved iPod nano (3rd gen) and Timbaland/OneRepublic’s Apologize came up. Besides enjoying the amazing bass piano, I caught something that I suppose I’ve been trying to hide from for a couple months now.

The song starts out by mentioning ropes. What are ropes? They’re strings of hope, things that keep us safe as long as we hold them close and tight to ourselves. They help us get down on our own two feet. They help us cross to other ropes.

They’re friends. They’re teachers, lovers, experiences even. They help us understand what it means to go on to something new, to jump over to a new one…

Sometimes it’s just really hard to switch, and again, I think ropes can help us see why. At any given time, you could say that you’re holding on to a bunch of ropes, each representing something you treasure. It could be anything – friends, a relationship, family…doesn’t even have to be people you enjoying being around, though it’s simpler to see it that way. Then suddenly someone tells you to let go of those ropes, and you’re afraid to fall. It’s only natural to be scared of grabbing on to new ropes. You don’t know if they’ll hold. You don’t know when they’ll break and if you’ll be smart or fast enough to discern the safe ones from the unsafe ones.

But life’s about risk, isn’t it? And if we never fell to the bottom, we’d never know how far it could go, how we’d survive, and most importantly, how we’d get back on those ropes, climb up, and hold on to ever new ones.

And the more ropes you know are safe, the more you can grab on to when you fall.

…and if you’ve been following my last post…

This song somehow doesn’t sum up what I’m feeling. Yea, parts of it are true, but the bit about apologizing and it being too late? Never.

The Trouble with Things

I was presented with a rather disturbing yet comforting thought today.

“How do you talk to someone about something, when that something concerns the person you want to talk to?”

More precisely, what happens when the only person you know you can talk freely to about your feelings so happens to be the one your feelings are about? It certainly is an odd thing, isn’t it?

I mean, it’s not like you can just go into third person with either party and just hope they won’t notice. Especially if they already know you harbour such feelings for them. You can’t just say something along the lines of…

So there’s this girl…I just can’t stop thinking about her. She has these amazing, beautiful eyes. And oh, when she talks…I can remember everything she says, so vividly, even after months and months of having told it to me. I read, reread and read again everything she’s ever sent to me, texts, emails, IM convos.

You get the point. So what is it that keeps us going? Perseverence? Fear? Jealousy?

To be honest, I can’t really put my finger on it. She shares so much with me, and we’re such cool friends. Let’s tie some things together. When is it friendship, when is it infatuation, and when is it love? Such a simple question. So hard to answer. Especially when they all roll into the same thing.

You can’t tell someone that they’re beautiful who doesn’t think of themselves as someone capable of being so. You can’t tell someone all the wonderful things you want to do with them and in their life when they don’t feel the same way. It’s even harder to stop these feelings.

So I leave you with a parting thought: Is love an extension of friendship, or is it the other way around? Or better yet, is it both?

She does have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Her laugh is so simple, so light. When she talks, it’s as if all the background radio chatter clears itself up and all you hear is … her. Those dreams, those stories, those ups and downs we shared with one another. Is it too good to just be discarded and thrown upon? Or is it the salt of my life, the thing that gives flavour to my days and keeps them fresh?

Fairytale

My fairytale – of dead dreams’ trails,
and time again does sky show veils.
Do all ends come when all starts night,
while seasons fade as would daylight;
so, pray for dreams – they fade in ales.

Wishes die from flower shades frail;
do flowers wilt – broken dreams wail,
and blue I walk in storms and write –
my fairytale.

Sad smiles, bitter grins do impale –
still, dreamed lives beg to no avail;
though mindless void waits, life flies kites
with heartstrings – and lives with kites fight.
So yes; so she’s a fairytale –
my fairytale.

Bright Day’s Shadows

In dreams of false night, as old fancies creep old floors,
a spirit stirs in light skies above; and in muted whimsical echoes
we all sound like we feel once more.

Once more, indeed, while the shrill winds sing encores,
though to the dreaming mind gales are voices hollow -
in dreams of false night. As old fancies creep old floors

new dreams fly, hoping they set ground in some distant shore;
though those dreams be glad nonsensical as the happy crows
we all sound like. We feel, once more,

and we think – once more – of sights we abhor adore
as we write and read again, with verses long shallowed,
in dreams (of?) false. Night – as old fancies creep old floors –

is dark caressing; shades shelter us, and truths so sure
melt as visions glide and trances write prose.
We – all – sound like we feel. Once more

will souls fly and cry their dying curse, as aged thoughts grow sore,
and will we wrap ourselves in dusk’s black shrouds and flows;
in dreams of night, as old fancies creep old floors,
we all sound like we feel – once more.

Light’s End

As dancing fires burn up this wood
and falling twigs cry hopeless ash and pray –
can heaven save trees that once proudly stood?

Nights watch, and dim flames loudly brood
as they vanish into endless nothing – bright light gives way
as dancing fires burn up this wood,

scorching earth, though pretty wisps delude
with pretty whirls and breezy twirls daze.
Can heaven save trees (that once proudly stood

but now no more with flames renewed)
with acts of god or life – one can say,
as dancing fires burn up this wood?

Dead roots wonder, and dry boughs feud
with dead leaves dead twigs day by day.
Can heaven save – trees that once proudly stood,

though now no bright light nor life do these exude,
nor do squirrels come or songbirds stay
as dancing fires burn up this wood –
can heaven save trees that once, proudly, stood?

Dreamed Dreamy Sky

Though our minds are shackled, we dream still at night
with wary eyes; wary thoughts we yearn for long
as we look up to the skies, and wish – to fly like a kite.

Winds haunt, clouds tempt – in daydreams we delight,
for the boundless sky croons honey tunes and knows no wrong;
though our minds are shackled. We dream still, at night:

a caged bird that once flew sings its bitter plight
and we, of down below, note its piercing song
as we look up to the skies and wish to fly. Like a kite

it flounders, and like two kites we fight,
with words full-stops and no one’s wrong –
though our minds are. Shackled, we dream still (at night)

of glad nightmares, and sad hopes we light
though these vibrant roses bite – long-walked roads still long
as we look up to the skies and wish to fly like a kite.

But earth begs and storms wail, and so the lightning strikes –
sleep well, our wishes: real skies are bright and wrong.
Though our minds are shackled, we dream still at night
as we look up to the skies, and wish – to fly like a kite.

Remember (How?)

Console not those who loved. Who’s lost,
but they who fight losing wars with fate –
those who bear burdens eternal, forged in the winter frost.

Wail they may, and shadows haunt, but the chilling wind exhausts
all hope: they, who watch and see mistakes,
console not. Those who loved (who lost)

wander, homesick, homeless – a shadow of love’s cost,
but those (who) seek complain not as they tangle with hate –
those who bear burdens eternal; for in the winter frost

cold winds are unforgiving with those – who stray and cross uncrossed
paths, paving ways with cruel regrets not-regrets those donate.
Console – not those who loved, who lost,

but they who win, who leave, they who accost -
they, who forget tears forget scars forget suns forget sleet.
Those who bear burdens eternal (for?) in the winter frost

remember, though, as the world and they forget those things lost -
those (who’re lost), who stand sad vigil in the winter night. So wait;
console not those who love, who lost,
those who bear burdens eternal – forged in the winter frost.

Once, and too much

We said
one sentence too many, made
one promise too many – you see, now, as they burn in
dimming fires. There’s nothing more
comforting (if any) than having
one dream too many, now; I write
one verse too many, though words slither and letters bite
like snakes and us alike. Days go and
nights stay, and flowers wither without a sun – cry
one tear too many (for one too many times), and feel
one pang too many – the painful wounds of emotions resurface
as relentless they impale, rinse and
repeat. Though all’s to be lost – I think
one thought too many – over phantom spilt milk, and we wove
one lie too many – I ponder them still, truths we
hid and lies we
embroidered –

one too many.

Walk On

Minds walk, and
words watch, and
eyes talk, and
thoughts touch.

Tired but sleepless, living but lifeless –
walk long, see wide
for tomorrow is another endless day.
(Our plight is never over
though forever ended yesterday.)

Winter Roads

Those fools of us who forget the cost
pay. Late, or early – but there is only to find
what would have been found and what would have been lost.

Say what may be, but unyielding is the frost;
haunting sleet that bites and tries to bind
those fools of us who forget the cost.

Thunder groans, and the blizzard shrieks at those who pause –
fools (of us) who stop and seek to mind
what would have been found and what would have been lost.

A corpse (or two) along the roadside crossed –
dull warnings to dull thoughts, and the winter grip treats us in kind;
those fools of us who forget the cost.

And heaven is blind – gods too asleep to hear our cause;
but say – and into powder the bitter wind grinds
what would have been found and what would have been lost.

Days pass (and nights dark), and only the frost
can begin to understand: letting us see from behind –
those fools of us who forget the cost
what would have been found and what would have been lost.