1:55 AM Sunday, April 21, 2013

A word with the silence isn’t too bad
Alone on the stairs I don’t give a care
A day on my own with ease I can bare
But these memories they do make me sad

   I can ease through a day just being on my own, in fact most times I prefer to stay alone; just letting myself loose on random thoughts and daydreams without any external disturbance can be blissful at times. When the world grows too murky with worries I no longer know the answer to, it is such quiet moments that would help me recollect myself back when I insidiously had lost myself piece by piece, fragment by fragment to the troubles of the human ways. Much like the quiet after the storm, or was that the calm after the storm? Anyway, whatever the popular phrase for it may be, it holds for the same reason: a complete, almost selfish, much needed time all to oneself. That critical moment when we take the time to strip down, get naked, and get vulnerable just for the sake of recollecting and rebuilding ourselves and thus perhaps brace for the upcoming storm. So, is it the calm before the storm now? It doesn’t matter; I guess we all need such times, just to ourselves, nothing more.

   Home is familiar enough to me, rather too familiar at times. The incredible flight of stairs to the top floor where an extension is made on the roof to accommodate my family, the quietness and privacy offered by the stairs at night, the darkness without lights, that familiar smell of night air mixed with that of fuel from vehicles which frequent the road on the side of which our building was built, that particular spot on the stairs where I then sat smoking cigarettes which now I do alone, that smelly spot near the black cylindrical water reservoir we call syntax, smelly because the outlet of the septic tank chimney opened so nearby, where a certain first kiss was made, that peculiar feeling when after church service at night the flight of stairs bestows, that nagging feeling while locking up the gate especially late at night, and that useless deed of looking down upon the metalled road just before I signed off for the night.

   I have been to quite a lot of places and held a lot of memories both good and bad. I have had the burden of needing to rid myself of the attachments to some places I’d spent a little longer than the others. The catch was to move on, not just a mental effort but a simultaneous physical distancing that exponentially assisted me in continuing to live without having to forget but to remember without having to paralyze life in my new home, and the acceptance without grudge of the necessity of the new beginning. And here is a new challenge, to move on while submerged in real, touchable, visible, perceptible, and smellable, in all sense sense-able evidence of the life that I am in dire need to release myself from and yet with a powerful illusion that made me feel as if it is agonizing to do so.

   Such is the nature of these memories, too good to just let it slip from my grasp, too bad to let it haunt my life that deserves something or rather someone a whole lot better. At times the heart tries to relish in the good, no, specks of could-be-better times which now seemed like specks of stars on a rather cloudy night sky that twinkles in and out of the heart which is now muddled with anger, frustration, agony, regret and coldness from lost hope, and it twinkles out of sight no matter how hard you strained your sensitive heart to perceive the lights. At times the mind amuses over the delusive nature of the heart that remembers which is much desired to be forgotten and forgets that which is much desired to be held on to, memories.


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