anazario

[anazario]

The ivy began in a forgotten corner, where rainwater pooled and sunlight broke itself on brick. No gardener chose the spot. No seed was sown with intention. It simply appeared, clinging to the base of a crumbling wall, green against gray.

It never reached for the sky. Instead, it crept—quietly, stubbornly—along mortar seams and fractured edges. It did not bloom. It did not call attention to itself. Leaves curled inwards like secrets. Stems pressed flat against stone, learning the contours of their confinement.

Seasons moved overhead in golden arcs. Birds built nests in higher branches. Flowers opened and closed like clocks. But the ivy stayed low, tracing the perimeter, moving only when no one was watching. It grew in silence, in shade, in spite.

Over the years, the wall wore its presence like a second skin—faint at first, then full, then suffocating. A pattern without a plan. A presence mistaken for decoration.

People called it growth. They admired the coverage, not knowing the ivy had never stopped to rest, never known direction, never reached for anything but the next inch of stone.

It is still growing, perhaps. Or maybe it simply doesn’t know how to stop.

[anazario]

We will not last because what we have is based on the promise of a future. And as the days go by, my will to see my future through has been fading faster and faster. I shouldn’t have said it that way but it is true. It’s not that I’m comfortable discussing it; those conversations were cries for help. I’m nearing the point of no return. I hope I can muster at least a year to help you get back on your feet. I hope I can.

[anazario]

Three decades of an internal maritime war.

Unseen currents weave a tale of isolation, a solitary ship sailing through the vast expanse.

A constant companion flaps its wings above. Doing its best to move against the freezing winds, trying its hardest to keep up.

Still, the horizon remains distant, obscured by the rhythmic dance of waves.

In the language of the ocean, communication becomes elusive, as if messages cast into the sea are swallowed by the depths, lost among the undulating whispers of the azure. Attempts to articulate thoughts resemble bottles adrift, their contents sealed away like cryptic scrolls meant for the depths, unheeded by the ocean's enigmatic inhabitants.

Years were spent steering through a ghostly shroud, where the lighthouse's beam struggles to penetrate the mist. Words, akin to elusive fish, slip through the nets of expression, leaving the ocean floor adorned with the remnants of unspoken truths.

Within the aqueous depths, a tempest silently unfolds, a symphony of unseen currents that remain hidden to the observer above. Unseen battles play out beneath the surface, the struggle to interpret the ocean's cryptic language mirroring a voyage through uncharted waters.

Yet, in this liquid tapestry, a distant luminescence glows, a subtle radiance on a faraway atoll. Resilience unfurls its sails against the currents of the sea, quietly navigating the labyrinth of hidden coves with a determination known only to the ocean itself.

The whispers of the sea hold secrets, and within its embrace, a change is struggling to unfold, silently and obscured, like the dance of shadows beneath the waves.

[anazario]

A chick contemplating its ascension

1. Just right where the wind grazes the precipice,

A fledgling hesitates, perched on the verge.

2. The mother's nudging beak, an unspoken choice,

A seemingly harsh act, shrouded in nature's dirge.

3. Beneath the downy cover, untold narratives stir,

A silent second unfolds, a secret dialogue.

4. The weight of maternal guilt lingers in the air,

Yet, hope takes flight, a quiet monologue.

5. The pleasure of untested wings, an airy liberation,

As feathers unfurl, embracing the unknown.

6. A suspended moment, a heartbeat's hesitation,

The fledgling's ascent, a dance with the winds it's shown.

7. The lifted weight, a burden unclasped,

In the breath of the wind, a soul finds release.

8. An act misconstrued, by nature's grasp,

A tale veiled, a leap into the sky of cease.

[anazario]

How do you keep on being a ray of light when dawn hasn’t reached you for what feels like eons? How do you muster up the balance to become someone else’s buoy when you’ve barely managed to stay adrift for centuries? How do you serve as another’s compass when the stars have playfully hidden from you for decades?

Dealing with loss is a maze no one has ever mapped out. Seeing another person slowly get lost is like being a cartographer with no sense of direction.

Every day is a struggle of finding yourself somewhat knowing where this is going to end without the strength to stop it from materializing.

It’s like taking an exam you know all the answers to but never having a pen to write them down. It’s like reading a novel you wrote for the first time. You know the tragedy that awaits the protagonist yet you still hope there’s an alternative ending you just haven’t thought of.

You are suddenly a spectator. You find yourself unable to move; Hands tied, gagged, and forced to watch yourselves slowly deteriorate as the story frustratingly gets closer to the climax.

It’s the same can of worms you’ve sworn you did everything not to open again. It’s the same old weariness with a fresh face. It’s your hideous reflection on the ocean as the waves quietly pull you down. It’s you knowing in your last numbered breaths that you will eventually get tired of swimming.

They say your life flashes before your eyes as you slowly succumb to the darkness. But how do you deal with seeing the love of your life’s slowmoed montage of gut-wrenching spiral into the depths of the ironic struggle you, yourself have never gotten used to?

How do you answer her when she asks you if it ever gets easier? Because if you’re truly being honest with yourself, it never did.

[anazario]

Ring.

My head is ringing. I think the turbine exploded. I think the left wing collapsed. I think we’re all going to crash. This tin can that we call us. The hope of a better destination. Everything is about to crash and burn. Now that my ears are going numb, I am suddenly longing to hear your turbulence. You did not only lift me up; I held your hand and we flew. It was rocky, it was shaky, but you took me to peaks and you've helped me breathe the freshest air my atmosphere could've ever gotten. We propelled to the highest of highs. We sat beside what has always seemed distant. We touched the sun.   Thus Icarus crashed. Thus King Minos burned. I guess when they say that the higher you get the harder you fall, they don't consider the fear that they bring. And the destruction that that  fear brings. Because the higher I got, the tighter I held.

The tighter I held, the faster you flew. And the gas is running out. The whistles are being blown. The oxygen masks are falling. The masks we've been wearing are breaking. And you, you opened the cockpit. And you, you are leaving me with no choice. And you, I am giving you the last parachute. And you, no matter how fast you fly, I cannot risk a chance of you crashing on the ocean floor. And you, you opened the fucking doors. And you, you are the best goddamned pilot I have ever seen. And you are the best goddamn plane that has ever flown. And I will forever be grateful for the chance to be the child who saw you flying and wondered; or the man who saw you flying and bought a ticket; or the bird who saw you flying and attempted to fly with you. Thank you for allowing me to be the kid who couldn’t settle for the show or the man who couldn’t settle for the aisle seat or the bird who couldn’t settle for the view from the window. I am the bird who got caught up in the fucking propeller and got stuck in the left engine. I am the bird who couldn’t just fly along. And you; You are the best goddamned thing that has ever happened to aviation and my life. And you; You brought the best that ever was in the sky.

And I ;

My head is flying. My head is ringing. I answer your call. I whisper.

I am sorry.    

[anazario]

Moonflowers

Evening Primrose only blooms in the darkest of the night.

I have lived my life showered with praises.

I was lucky enough to have been embraced by the loving arms of supportive parents. I grew up knowing that I had potential. I grew up hearing that I could be whomever I wanted to become. I grew up being celebrated for all the accomplishments, no matter how miniscule they may be. I have lived my life feeling that I was destined for greatness.

Within the first century of my existence, I knew the fields where I could excel; I knew the techniques I could use to dominate; I was sure of the path I wanted to take. It was not really a dream, it was more of a destination. And within the first century of my existence, my journey had already begun.

Back then, it was just a matter of finding the most efficient way to navigate.

But Evening Primrose only blooms in the darkest of the night.

You see, the problem with being certain where you want to go at an early age is, well, a lot.

Imagine driving through a tunnel. Imagine being only a mile away from where you want to be. Just close your eyes and imagine being there in that moment. You could feel the breeze brushing against your skin, dancing with the strands of your hair damped with both excitement and anticipation. The waves could faintly be heard, signaling you that the distance is shortening. You could see nothing but the light at the end of it. A light so intoxicating you could barely keep your hands on the steering wheel.

Just close your eyes and imagine being there in that moment. Now imagine your engine breaking down. Imagine the wheels bursting. Imagine the fuel running out. Imagine stopping in the middle of that dark, narrow tunnel with nothing but the echoes of your frustrations.

You were so focused on the destination, you failed to notice the hole in your tank. You were so focused on driving quickly through the tunnel, you failed to anticipate the humps. You were caught off guard. You know you checked the car thousands of times but it is just then that you realize that you were riding a motorcycle. You do not have a helmet. Nothing to shield your sheltered mind.

You stop. You brace yourself for the crash.

But surprisingly, you fall.

Softly.

Quietly.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

You see, the problem with being certain where you want to go at an early age is the fact that you will surely believe with all that you have that you would get there.

When you live a life showered with praises, you don't realize how quickly you could drown when it stops. When you are lucky enough to have loving and supportive arms to embrace you, you don't prepare for times when you'd feel unworthy of warmth. Like a double-edged sword, having all your accomplishments celebrated means living all the days with the lack of it. When you live a life knowing you are destined for greatness, you drop all the contingency plans; you never think of the tiniest possibility that you are not.

When you live a life hearing how good you are, the silence becomes deafening. When you start flying fueled by knowing you have potential, you never worry about how hard and painful the fall could be.

And hard it was. And painful it still is.

Growing up knowing you could be whomever you wanted to be makes you hate the person you are now. Close your eyes and imagine having to apologize to the person you did not become.

You see, the problem with being certain where you want to go at an early age is the fear of never getting there after you inevitably stop. The problem with being certain where you want to go at an early age is the look on your parents' faces when you tell them you're not; not gonna get there; not even sure where there is. The problem with being certain where you want to go at an early age is the look on your parents' faces not because they are disappointed in you but because they're disappointed in themselves for not getting you there; not because they pity you but because they're sorry. The problem with being certain where you want to go at an early age is the fact that you most probably, even at that point in time, without even knowing it, are not gonna get there.

And as I laid silently amidst the silence of that pitch-black tunnel, I see an Evening Primrose.

Imagine being in that moment. It wouldn't be that hard because you most probably are already in it.

Imagine stopping in the middle of that dark, narrow tunnel with nothing but the echoes of your frustrations.

Now imagine getting up. Slowly. You can take your time. Imagine your sight getting accustomed to the dark. Imagine the walls. Imagine the shard of rock on your bleeding knee. Imagine yanking that piece of the road. Imagine slowly raising your heavy arms. Imagine painting on the walls with your blood and your sweat and your tears. Imagine short lines. Imagine the drawing you used to make when you were a child. Imagine making it again. Imagine the world you're bringing to life. It doesn't matter how beautiful or ugly it is. It doesn't even matter if you know how to create art or not. That image on the wall is yours. And no matter how dark it gets, it has already been embedded in your mind.

Now open your eyes. Really, really open your eyes.

The tunnel is long, narrow, and dark. But the switch is still there. The lights were just turned off.

You may need to re-tune the engine. You may just need to refuel. There's nothing wrong with changing tires. There's nothing wrong with changing the destination. You will get there.

You may have already gotten there and just got lost. The lights were just turned off. Let your mind rest for a while. Embrace the night.

Remember, Evening Primrose only blooms in the darkest of the night.

[anazario]

The Dog And Bone Paradox

Stop.

Stop reading this before we get hurt.

Stop digging out the uncertain memory that you hope is there at the bottom of your backyard.

Stop excavating for purpose. Stop wearing out your paws with nearly forgotten dreams.

After the corrosion that is life, what has been left will surely just add frustration to your already dirtied paws. Your nails have been hit one too many times. Stop looking for what clearly was never supposed to be there to begin with.

What once had been a garden full of apples has now become a minefield of wasted rot. You have sullied your collar time and time again. Your paws have been swollen enough, you wouldn't be able to grab the delusions your misguided nose has been pestering you with.

Stop.

Stop reading this before we get hurt.

Stop digging out the uncertainty of what you believed has been promised.

Stop excavating for lies your master had come up with to cease your whining last night.

What you've buried a million years ago, the treasure you gnawed on so dearly will never be there. Not because you've been unwillingly moved from shelter to shelter because of your ticks; not because you've been forced to be pat by more than twenty new pairs of disgusting hairless hands; not because you've grown tired of the pats and started biting; not because your collars seem to change every time you wake up from your slumber; not because you've been a bad boy.

Stop.

Stop digging what isn't there.

You've never been smart enough to deserve a reward. The only trick you could've appeased your master with was vanishing and you weren't even able to finish it successfully. You can't find a shelter because no roof will ever save you from the pouring guilt, the aftertaste of what you had done. You will never find the scent of the first warm arms that carried you, they're already scalding because of your parasites. Your eyes will never tell you the truth about the colors around your neck. Colors have always been a dream. Stop dreaming. Just sleep.

Stop.

Stop digging.

The X on the map has never been where the bone was. There isn't a pot of gold.

Stop digging.

The depth is already enough. Stop tiring yourself out. Not when the needle is almost skin deep; not when there are no teary faces to be seen by the window.

Stop digging.

Not because you've been a bad boy.

You've never been a good one to begin with.

Stop.

Stop digging.

For the last time, just spare them the time. You've made enough mess. Let the bone go. You, yourself will soon start to become one.

[anazario]

Cough Syrup for the Dyscalculia

Approximately eight hundred twenty one million, five hundred seventy seven thousand, and six hundred  ticks. 

More or less than five million faces.

Billions and billions of interactions I can barely even remember.

I have lived my life counting. Unsuccessfully. 

One. Two.

Two rumors have been plaguing the worlds that I've been living in. Rumors that are hardly believable. Rumors that as of this moment, if my sources are accurate, eight billion people are forcing themselves to swallow.

One. 

Your life flashes before you as the last gasp of breath leaves your soulless eyes. 

Maybe it's the sentimentality. Maybe it's the romance of it all. Maybe it's just one last lie we could muster to force comfort in our vaccuous existence. Maybe it's the allure of hope. Maybe it's the lack of it. Maybe we are just creatures of survival, struggling to hold on to whatever dreams we have of prolonging our sufferings. Maybe we are just too afraid to face the vagueness of what's next no matter how confusing what we already have is. 

Even with the seven maybe's my weary mind could come up with, the last strand of sanity is still slowly unwinding. The last string of this worn out guitar is still slowly losing its tune. The last amber of faith that this camp has in the promise that it will once again be filled with echoes of mellifluous lies is still slowly crumbling its way to the merciless winter. 

They say your life flashes before you as the last gasp of breath leaves your soulless eyes. But how can it be true when all your life was a languid stream of a clumsily patched montage of proof that you actually never have lived? How can it be true if your eyes lost its sight the moment you started seeing what your soul had to offer? 

Two.

Out of eight billion people in this world, one was specifically made to complete you. 

As if you were a puzzle purposefully manufactured with missing pieces. As if you were broken. As if you were a problem in need of another intellect to solve. 

And as you go on your way trying to convince yourself of how pointless your esse is alone; as you go on erasing faulty answers written in stains made by the serrated materials of, ironically, opposite goals; as you go on forcing yourself to believe that your life is an equation waiting to be deciphered through the help of variables you have also forced yourself to believe  were required; you lose track of the only constant needed. You end up having a crumpled sheet of erasures, worn out because of the pointless usage of calculations; wet with the ink your dried windows once had; cramped with smudges of regrets occupying lines where your first and final solution could have had been placed. A solution that only needed your acceptance to begin with. 

One. Two.

These rumors gave me a reason to count. 

And count I did. 

But in the end, isolation has nothing to do with numbers. 

The art of arithmetic has always been just for sheep herding and all the sheep's wool have been sheared; the last slice of hogget has been sold; the fence has been devoured by termites; and counting the sheep has finally come to an end.

Eight hundred twenty one million, five hundred seventy seven thousand, six hundred and one ticks no more.

[anazario]

No Wall

The wall will never break. 

It has been two thousand seven hundred and forty two years since the lonesome boy started scratching the surface. 

The first 2 years flooded the floor with blood and broken nails. As the ensemble of cries and whines became the theme song of his tiny existence, the highlight of the nights kept on performing its encore. The infuriating screeching sound that nails make when they're repeatedly and forcefully colliding with blackboards, or in this case, a wall.

What the meticulous hands of a pampered boy once had for nails slowly yet all at once became diamonds that could rip open the skies. All for the sake of grabbing the moon and singing it a lullaby. 

But the moon cannot be reached. And the naivety that the boy had was not enough for him to find his voice. 

The wall was too thick and the stars have made it soundproof.  

The taller the boy got, the higher the wall raised its ceiling. 

Centuries have gone by when the boy finally noticed his swollen fists. He figured since his nails were probably not strong enough, punching the wall must have been a faster approach. He was shocked by his ingenuity. He was appalled by his growth. His swollen hands were shaped like maces now. Calloused, worn out, serrated, rusted, cold. 

Numb. 

Year after year the boy kept pounding. Bludgeoning the wall and his childhood along with it. 

With each punch that reverberated around the open field, the memories of what once was slowly echoed away from his mind. He used to dance around the sun. He used to dream when it hid before he blinked it back to its rightful place along the shores. He used to drink the dew that it brought. He used to bathe in its heat. He used to trail across its rays. He used to know which was east and dread the allure of the west. 

But alluring it was and allured he became. 

The howls of the wolves were too exciting and the promise of the moon, enticing. 

The boy sighed. Now a man, he tried to recall the bittersweet memory of what he had on his face the morning he decided to climb the heavens. A staircase made of roses with the aroma of pastry and, weirdly, mediterranean chicken. He tried to picture the expression that he had the afternoon he reached the plateau of greenery and dreams. The field that was promised. The garden in all his bards' melodies. He tried to copy the twitching his mouth did; the twinkle his eyes had. But he knew deep in his heart that 'smile' would only be a word until his never-ending dusk bids him adieu. 

With clenched fists, he flew another storm of punches. A kick was even thrown in the mix to spicen things up. But no huffing and puffing  could ever break even an eighth of his foe. No matter how hard he tried to unthink it he knew the truth. No kicking; No punching would ever make a difference. Hitting it with his head, even with all his might, would only crack open his skull. The giants he saw walking back home on his way to the stairs wouldn't even do the trick. He knew it the moment he caught a glimpse of their wrecked wrecking balls. He knew that no matter how hard he tried to cover his ears; that no matter how loud the beat of his body against the wall was, what he heard from Miley was absolute. 

So he finally sat down. Not to think, no, he had all the time to contemplate.

 He had realized that it stopped being about the moon millenia ago. There were arguments among his selves one too many times.

No, he did not sit down to clear his mind. He knew it wasn't about the moon anymore; nor was it still about the millions of lullabies he had composed. Dawn ceased to sound inviting. For aeons Dusk was all he had. 

He had grown accustomed to his struggle. He didn't know what life was without the pain. He couldn't tell time without the ticking of his torn knuckles. He could not see who he was without the wounds.

He fell in love with the wall. 

He grabs a clutch made of bloodstained bones. He stands up once again, clenching his wrinkly fists. Eyes overflowing with vacuum where a galaxy once was. 

He breathes. 

He sighs.

[anazario]

A Worn Out Ledge

His humid sunsets have never felt this cold.

He numbingly embraces its lack of warmth.

He flies.

It's peculiar how he's never felt the truth until now.

He has always bitched about how hot it was but never about the lack of breeze.

Always so transfixed with what was present and what his present was instead of what was obviously missing.

Always frustrated by the tears he has perspired but never the shivers he's missed.

But now; now the piercing whispers carry him to bed.

Now, he flies.

And as he soars through the new found clarity of his vague reflection, he realizes how his cloudy skies have never been this pellucid.

He has always been confused whenever he looked up.

The stars have always been faded. The rainbows blurry.

The sudden change piqued his interest.

And fortunately, it happened this late.

Because now; now the vivid smiles guide him.

They guide him towards the lamp.

Ever so slowly, the smiles guide him.

Now, he flies.

He flies knowing that his world will soon become boundless.

With haste, he flies not knowing where he will be, not knowing where he actually is.

But he flies with certainty. He flies knowing that the room where he was, must never be visited again.

He flies and he hears laughter from the ocean across.

He hears the sea smiling at him.

With each wave comes a sigh of relief.

The ebbing of his world is finally starting to cease.

The sirens are gone.

The tides are finally at peace.

The luminous echoes envelop him.

He can finally hear once again.

He is here.

He is now.

He crashes.

He smiles.

He flies.

[anazario]

Slowly yet all at once.

Having grown up in a world that feels time made it more than challenging to try and live in a fleet travelling millions of galaxies at lightspeed. It took all of me to keep up. Blasting away my engine, biting their dust as I weep; surrounded by the fading heat, the fleeting trace of the rockets owned by the future; rusting like a solitary paper plane of their past.

And a paper plane I was.

Floating.

As gravity pulled closer, crushing every air left in me, all the buttons started looking like puzzle pieces. Ones that were all edges. Creased and confused, I forgot how to fly; slowly yet all at once.

It's funny how easily getting used to feeling time can become burdensome. What once seemed like a ray of light became a blindfold. Slowly yet all at once, each minute chipped the faded paint away. The moment I took a peek, all that was left for me to gaze upon was a spot where the blackbox used to lie.

Floating in the middle of an abysmal map. While Atlas tried with all his might to carry a lonesome planet, I started floating with the heaviest sheet. Just by his space but never within reach.

I guess time and space really do come in pairs. Both I badly needed. Both I was suffocated by. Both suddenly had the urge to leave.

Slowly yet all at once.

With every pilot rushing to abandon ship, I was unstrapping the belts of my ejector seat. But the time was not enough. And my time has not yet come.

Everyone sank but me.

As the hour hand grew bigger, the scope of my radar shrunk. I started seeing less and less until all I could detect was the absence of time. The absence of my time. The absence of my self.

Slowly yet all at once, all the blackholes in existence couldn't dare compare to the vacuum in the cockpit. What could have easily been wound spiraled out of control, leaving all of the clogs ironically frozen within the memory of the stars.

Having lived life feeling time pass by, it was a stroke of genius how the end slowly yet all at once became full with time yet void of feeling.

[anazario]

My mother once taught me to always aim for the highest star. She told me that the one that shines the brightest was the one that was meant for my hands to reach. She taught me that once it has shown itself, it is with utmost certainty that I must never lose sight of its light. That even if it takes lightyears to attain, the journey will surely be the adventure of all my possible lifetimes. My mother taught me that my life was created for the sole purpose of being in this moment. My life's purpose is reaching the shiniest star.

But

She forgot to mention how hot stars could be. I wasn't prepared for the searing heat that slides into the cracks of my bones.

I blindly believed her story. And as I stare blankly at the burning light, with gaping holes where my eyes used to see, and torched hands with fingers that can't feel, I still find myself foolishly hoping for her stories to be real.

Her stupid stories that don't include how unkind the universe truly is.

I didn't know that the vacuum of the space was not meant for breathing. I didn't realize that the higher I aimed the farther I'd become from a surface I could step on.

I can't see a surface my feet could depend on.

Physics, just like my mother's stories, is a lie. How is it that the farther I get, the stronger the gravity becomes? I am hanging by a wire and my oxygen tank is about to blow up. And I just can't fathom how my mother forgot to tell me that the light I see from the stars are just ghosts of what once was.

I have dreamt and stared and wept. I have lived my life reaching and trying but still, all there is is space. And space is cold and cruel. And space is all one gets.

Because stars will never come down and reach for you as you smoke yourself to death. Because stars aren't real. They're just memories. Memories of what your mother made you believe.

[anazario]

Lit D'isolement

I hate gazing at the stars.

I lie awake in the middle of the ocean.

I lie awake gazing at the constellations.

I lie awake in the night.

I lie awake on a raft.

I lie awake.

I lie.

I said that the light brings me direction.

I said that the light brings me comfort.

I said that the light brings me warmth.

I said that the light brings me joy.

I said that I could still see the light.

I’m blind.

I thought the breeze will always be refreshing.

I thought the waves would always make me dance.

I thought my voyage would somehow reach some land.

I’m thirsty.

I drowned.

I would fall asleep next to her and feel the obscurity swallowing me whole.

I’ve always thought that being with someone in the same room, on the same bed, was the epitome of intimacy. I’ve always thought that solace comes to those who have finally settled down. We’ve planted roots but while I was planning to grow a farm, she was using the logs to build her leviathan.

The confusion fueled my voyage. And as I sail across the oceans looking for a trace of what once was, the wreckage that has been left was looted by the shadows her moonlight gave. What was uprooted may still be planted again. But how will it ever be possible if the gardener has chosen to sell all the grains?

I am stuck in a raft waiting to be rescued. I dare not swim for the comfort drowning brings is overly endearing. I dare not yell for the reverberating echoes are dulling.

I hate gazing at the stars.

I would fall asleep next to her and feel the obscurity swallowing me whole. I have never imagined being next to someone could make a person feel so lone.

I have come to realize that isolation has nothing to do with numbers.

[anazario]

As You March On Your Parade

The sound of the hungry earth loudly roaring as its gravelly mouth readies to devour me whole has never been this enticing.

I want to go back to my home.

You see, I am a potato.

As staple as staple could get.

I am a potato. Round, muddy, and omnipresent. I am a potato, stuck between two dimensions. Overflowing with potential as I rot in a world of realistic commerce.

Not even the alpha-potato with its large and oval built. With its smooth yellow skin and pale yellow flesh. Not even the floury alpha-potato which consumers love to set at their tables.

Not even a beta-potato. Not as savory as sweet potatoes. Bland and stout. Stout but not with mass. Stout as a balloon could be. Filled with dry air. I am a gamma-potato. The sprouted potato, considered toxic due to my potentially high concentration.

Ironically though, I find it really hard to concentrate.

I spent hours submerged in the boiling oceans of hell. They said the golden water would turn me into a prize that everyone would fight for. The idea of being somebody's prize has an allure I couldn't resist. I thought I could do it. I thought I could handle it. They asked me to strip. They stripped away everything. They sliced me up, breaking me into thin strips. Each strip looking like the same me. Each strip being totally the opposite of who I was truly. They said, proper imaging is necessary for me to be worthy. I believed them.

But not myself.

I spent hours submerged in the boiling oceans of hell. I was gargling the immense heat. I was bathing in all the insecurities a potato could possibly get. But in the end, I ended up twisting in pain. Curling. Rejected.

For a potato considered toxic due to my potentially high concentration, I apparently did not concentrate enough to be as straight and firm as they want me to be.

This failure has led them to believe that I should be pounded and grounded instead. I am still unsure whether they did it to straighten the shit out of me or if it was just their way to release their anger. Apparently, my wasted potential made them feel that my life and what it turned out to be was their failure.

Thus, the boiling continued; along with all the other curlies. But unlike before, we did not deserve the golden oceans anymore. It was just plain old salted desperation that they boiled us in. Eternities passed and we were picked up and huddled together. What used to be a normal wind transformed into the freezing breeze of hell. Contradicting, yes. But that was how it felt. Everything was contradicting. They then pounded us and grounded us. And turned us into a mashed mess. What used to be my somewhat hard exterior turned into a mushy, muted, formless, dough. Faceless, as is everyone forced to be with me.

A formless lump of faceless mush. A stereotype. Hoping that this second chance would be the last. Praying to the gods of potatoes that the process we have gone through would finally satisfy them.

We were wrong. We were too salty. Too much for their taste.

At this point I, we (identity has been a problem these days) did not feel anything anymore. We have been pushed and pulled one too many times for us to actually feel anymore.

Luckily for us, *yey!* the almighty potato gods still has one solution left for this crop problem. Salvation can still be granted. The mistakes that we have made for being gamma-potatoes could still be corrected, the sin of being the third sect could still be absolved.

There is a new project that the gods have been working on. The media-capitalistic-reformation. An experiment used to be done to cattles and horses. I believe they called it BRANDING. A grand term for a grand purpose.

Salvation.

They will compress us into these thin layers of ourselves; like fitting into a uniform that you would be wearing for the rest of your days; a little bit tight and a little bit loose; a little bit uncomfortable, a little like you. We will be compacted into fine chips. The best version that we could get for our cheap and chipped selves. A mono-dimensional character that we have always been. I used mono because apparently ingestion of potatoes like me could also cause mono.

They would burn us as they did to the witches before us. They would burn us to crisp. They believe that being brittle would make us seem less of a threat and more of an entertainment for them. The sound that we would make as they pick us up and munch us down would be satisfying, indeed. We will be joining a cluster, a group of one and the same I's. There will be no differences amongst us. Nothing particular. We will all be the same and we will all be waiting inside this grand package filled with the same air my body was filled with before, when I was still me. We will be waiting inside this grand package filled with air yet grasping to breathe. We will be waiting inside a dark closet, not by our making but by the standards of the market we live in. We will be waiting for the kindest god to pick us up and break our chains free so we could be devoured by their gluttonous grins.

You see, we were mistakes. We were sins. We sprouted as gamma-potatoes but they believe that it was our choice. They believe that we could have been alpha-potatoes or sweet potatoes or even tomatoes if only we had wanted to. And I did. I wanted to. Because they believed what they believed. And what they believed the world believed. And the world made it hard for me to not believe what they believed in.

[anazario]

Has it ever crossed your mind how similar we are to hamburgers? No matter how hard you try to be different, even if it’s unfair, even if everybody else feels the same way. We add a little bit of ketchup, garnish ourselves with a few slices of cucumber, and call ourselves in different names.

Yet we all have the same fucking taste. 

We were born as blank canvasses. Hollow pictures that our families painted on with their past frustrations, repressed cravings, and forgotten dreams.

We were taught in farms like cattle being trained to give off the same sour milk as they whispered how unique we were and  how we were born for something grander than being livestock.

We were conditioned to dream of flying and reaching the stars and as we were about to jump over the moon, they  branded us with the burning irony of how we were  never truly going to be able to escape the ranch.

And we end up believing. And we end up following. And we end up loving the ring of  the bells around our necks.  And we end up doing the same thing to our calves. 

All of us trying to be somebody; trick-or-treating for money, respect, and attention; trying to prove that  we are special; bargaining for an extraordinary costume yet still ending up with the same predictable uniform that colors our world. The same buns that envelop our processed flesh. The same tray where they serve us to our fellow cows.

[anazario]

Shipwreck

Even if we could go back, we'd  probably never end up where we started.

What used to be a fleet of a hundred soldiers  has turned into shattered helms and cleaved sails. 

We saw the allure of the peripatetic horizons on the four corners of our home, the promise of adventure, the spoils of idealism. We saw them all and  we took an oath to reach them. Where the vast sky meets the dreadful sea. Out there, where a song could reach a million deaf ears. Out there, where the gust of reality blew us away. For better or worse. 

Mostly for the worse. 

The worst.

We watched the reflection of the tired sun as the lights were switched on to guide us, our constellations. 

We were.

We learned how to guide others. We learned how to illuminate. We learned how to inspire. We were looked upon. Adorned and adored. 

We were. 

We grew. We grew as far as the seas could bring us; as high as the skies could kiss. We grew as deep as the depths of our hearts. We left anchors at every port as we scoured the globe, trying to discover places that have already been mapped.  We destroyed countless reefs and shoals along the way but nobody batted an eye.  “It was all done for love!”, they said.  We were sailors and our barrels were filled with apples.  He told us not to touch it but we did. We did and I got seasick.

I grew tired as your wanderlust got fueled up. I longed for the shore and you became certain. Certain that you wanted more. You craved for more exploits; more of the waves and the breeze; more of the heat and the thrills. I was eyeing the nearby land so I can set my roots and grow further.  But you are not a tree. You are what comes after that. You were already  a ship when I was merely trying to be a raft. And you have grown. Expanded. Improved. You have become a colossal tyrant of the sea. You have become a conqueror of worlds beyond and above what I can only imagine.  You were meant to roam the galaxies, stars tracing your path as you sail. Me, admiring you from a far, feet planted to the mundane.

What used to be a fleet of a hundred soldiers  has turned into shattered helms and cleaved sails. You needed the spare parts and knowing that they were actually all yours to begin with, knowing that you were just kind enough to lend them, I gave it back.

I am reminded, you were meant to roam the galaxies, stars tracing your path as you sail. Me, admiring you from a far, feet planted to the mundane, a lonesome log floating.