coloredhands

[coloredhands]

A Storm Un/Contained

They see 

Grace that begets a heart of compassion With which I navigate this expansive panorama Adorned with white lilies, I am a timeless fashion

Yet I am

A wandering vagabond who treads through magma Whose romantic tale of galore, what’s plentiful are ravens Shedding feathers, I dress a mesmerizing stigma One that cannot be discerned, obscured by wavens

They see

Smile that masks a hundred tribulations aferry  A dazzling pretense, with shadows looming near In silent nights, I sleep through sorrows weary

Yet I am

Grappling to hold the reins with screams unclear An endless ordeal, marred and perpetually dreary Spinning through, I dance the rhythm of resilience From which in every heartbeat, there is suffering in silence

They see

Mountain anchored, steadfast amidst the wildness of fate Who bows and retreats, I cannot be unreconciled As I should be destined with anything but despairing hate

Yet I am

A collection of paradoxes, unceasing contrasts entwined Either barely living or almost dying, there’s no clarity of state Weaving a tapestry of laughter and pain, feelings are undefined

So in the stillness of nights, I tethered aimlessly Seeking a pristine focus of “me’s” that may or not be mine A profound introspection, one that’s done carelessly My fragmented selves, a storm that grace can hardly belie

[coloredhands]

Distant Memory

The tranquil waters danced with the breeze and the ocean rejoiced

I found myself dancing along the music away from noise

I looked up the skies and witnessed the azure firmament smile

A bittersweet view reminds—I used to love myself awhile

[coloredhands]

Something Vampire

In the cold, almost deserted night When the bloody moon sends fright To those who walk in the dark empty with might There came not a shadow, but a light

A curse was lent on one The chosen has been hunted down There was an excruciating pain that danced inside the hopeless man Alas! It is a must to run now!

To suck blood is the only way to survive To have a half-blooded heir is to stay alive And so, a force to penetrate and plant the seedling is done inside But look, a girl is as odd as the number nine!

When everything seems off, there came a beauty at dawn She mesmerized the organ inside his empty lawn The force was not to rip what he saw But to protect the love that has grown

A love blossomed within It was tranquil, it was drowning, it was serene Such a beauty for a hideous creature like him Without so much ado, they ignite the bed during the dim

A secret was exposed It isn't something anyone would suppose But poor, unfortunate souls! Why must the love be let go?

War became the end, war is the end Or should we say, it has to be what the deity sent? Maybe, maybe, there is an egg labored by the hen Is that the heir that has been seen?

[coloredhands]

Philia is Nature

There sits between the sophisticated East a creek Cruddy, muddy, grubby and drenched with filth I took a drift, a shift, sight out the civics' dirt Then I saw a tree, a sea, a whiff where sail the nature's peak Enamored, I graced the wealthy land's plum Caroling is a majestic fowl, the nests were filled with hum Serene sighs allayed my woes, the feelings I could not sum Waved memories I once fathomed, and back the embrace of dear mom

[coloredhands]

It is the System

My mother was Gothel, and I was resentful.

Like a poison vine, continuously crawling towards my pineal gland; and in this momentum, my utopian dream was corrupted. A nurturing mother, who pours me a love that doesn’t hurt... That doesn’t constrain me and will never stop me from scrutinizing this novel macrocosm—I couldn’t have it. To venture outside was a taboo, and to leave the premises she had set was a crime worthy of punishment. Through the cracks of her cage, the greeneries were the fairies that sparkled under the sun's grace, and the sound of rain seemed like sirens enticing me to step into the earth; smell the wafts of petrichor, and lay on a bed of roses as I had people accompany me. These exaggerated associations were a result of my inability to experience the world that I craved so badly—that my mother deprived me of as much.

My mother was Gothel, and I was hesitant.

Like the tablet where Moses carved God's Ten Commandments, she inculcated unto me that society was not as endearing and nurturing as I thought it was. She told me that I was constantly in danger, unable to trust anyone aside from my immediate family who only had women surviving men's infidelity and lapses. A strict curfew, monitored activities, and a sister who I could only be within school represented mutes at a funeral; a routine that is ever stagnant, hampering me from my life's social task. I was desperate to reach out to the people my mother said were fickle but I always felt that her words could have substance and many times, I knew, some mistakes are irreversible. I was growing, and so her cage was becoming unable to contain me. Perhaps… I should.

My mother was Gothel, and I was confused.

Like how the stronghold of unbelief slowly proves the nonexistence of certain convictions, my mother was also a collection of paradoxes. To condemn the system that disables women is a feat to celebrate but such critiques only resonated in a private space; shackled within her mind and the home that keeps our secrets. Every day felt like a battle to live another day and she was almost, always alone to shoulder this crumbling home while I stood there, confronted with an emerging abhorrence against the existing constructs that bestowed upon me and generations of my family useless wings. I do not understand why my mother was still hopeful despite her relentless complaints about life, about herself, and this world. This inconsistency made me doubt the purpose of the cage she put me in as I grew up. To mold my benevolence towards women and carve the same scars that men have inflicted on our "inferior" kind, where is such resilience coming from?

My mother was Gothel, and I am trying to understand.

Like the glory of Mount Tai who never bowed down to the strongest winds, she was among the legion of women who forged an indestructible shield against centuries of gender-based killings and oppression, marked by innumerable abuse, neglect, exploitation, defilement, and depravation. I do not blame my mother for the childhood she gave me despite her acting against the ideologies she wanted me to hold. I do not blame my mother for making me prioritize myself even if she couldn’t do so as my primary model for social learning. I do not blame my mother for having to endure being a woman—bearing the burden of her guilt of having to subject me to become less like the nurturing personification of women that she grew up believing she should always be. I understand that it is not my mother's fault she couldn’t have the willpower to become the ideal self she wanted to become; someone a little selfish and more stubborn to walk away from the home she couldn’t save. I understand that my mother grew up without a father figure, and she doesn't want me to be the same, even if it meant she had to give up her individuality and silently hope that she could finally rest.

My mother is Gothel, and I am thankful.

Like this gratitude that I hold the greatest thought about, my mother will always be the reason why I will continue to fight against the system that designed women to only be those nurturing fairies that are unable to fly; merely allowed to roam a garden in a hardly arable land while being blamed for the plague. In this system that dictates me to become a tool for procreation, a machine to raise the young while maintaining a wall to repress my jealousy against my husband's mistresses, bearing the title of Eve who subjected mankind to doom—I will not simply sit and suffer in silence. I am also allowed to voice my thoughts; to be an imperfect organism like how many men are that they mask behind their assertion of dominance; to be exhausted; to not be nice and accommodating; to prefer cats and dogs; to walk during the night without being scared; most importantly, to exercise the same rights and privileges which many generations of my kind can only secretly aspire.

[coloredhands]

A Field of Dandelions

I blinked my eyes from a sudden moment of consciousness, greeted by a resplendent morning. Inhaling, I filled my lungs with air that smelled like mint as the lush greens swayed under the gentle breeze, which completely shoved the curtains of my bedroom away. The subtle sounds of flowing water and the noble hum from a family of sparrows pecking the berries by the trees were interrupted by my mother's call from outside. The door creaked open, and her hurried expression ended my reverie. I couldn’t remember much about the ramblings she spouted after that, but I was pretty sure she was scolding me for waking up later than I was supposed to do since I had to catch the bus. The skies were already azure when I found a seat at the back of the rural transport. Even though I wanted to immerse myself in the excitement of watching places pass right through my eyes like a film, I was more worried that I would end up vomiting before I could even reach the city. It was two hours of bargaining with life and death before my shaking legs stepped on the solid ground of Tambo Terminal, my eyes lifeless, and my lips chapped and dry.

The new semester has opened, completely ramming the untold stories of distress and frustration from a few months ago into lucid flashbacks — void of a sense of accomplishment. The excitement that I had felt back in the day when I first left my province to study away from home was negligible in the face of the growing apathy that adulthood had brought me. Everything was a series of routines, ignited by endless questions of whether every choice I made as a private person in the social situation would not come crashing down on me years from now. The same classrooms and classmates to talk to, coupled with a ceaseless cycle of eating, studying, and sleeping, slowly killed the dream that I had before I braved distance from family to become an independent individual capable of taking care of herself. When I was young, I couldn’t wait to grow up and not depend on my parents anymore, at least emotionally — but now that I can only describe this phase as a boundless monotone that I don’t even have someone to express it to — maybe it would have been better if I was back in that time when I was racing through the fields and blowing dandelions.

Of course, this isn't all that bad; at least I am trying to be optimistic about that. Growing up meant that I had more opportunities to do things that my feeble, younger self couldn’t do. In this age and time, a dinner with friends after a hellish examination week can be considered a rewarding experience. Strolling at night, watching the city lights light the streets while the endless line of vehicles honk and tootle on the highway, allows one to appreciate the advent of human civilization while also realizing that the rain in the province is way more aesthetic. One thing I would consider to be the greatest gain in studying at a university is the greater stage. In a place full of scholars, artists, and explorers of liberal and natural sciences, the exchange of information and ideas flows like waterfalls after a plush rain. It is an opportunity to associate oneself with minds that are alike and different from ours, understanding the concept of different perspectives and coming to comprehend infinite mysteries encompassing life and existence. Leaving the comfort of long nights and profound folklore from my grandparents allowed me to witness how much the world has changed and to what extent it is changing for the next generations to solidify. The legends buried beneath the ground, with millions of years of history that are waiting to be discovered laid the foundation of the world that we are reshaping now. The philosophy of mind, the complexities of the social world, the past that introduced them, and the language that connects us served as the backbone of these newfound expectations that my system has created after the first ones were destroyed. Every day is a chance to learn and relearn the things that are divine, preposterous, and helpful. 

When I look back, I always remember those dandelions I blew during the springs. Somehow, it dawned on me that, like dandelions, we're meant to send our seeds to the bigger world. Everywhere is a field of them, and everywhere is a stage to reach: to be in, to deliver a will… To express a need to be recognized as a learner, a professional, and most especially, a social scientist.

[coloredhands]

Solo Leveling

How quaint.

Like the incessant, blowing zephyr from the north, which is the experience of the air moving from high to low pressure, the nature of things as they seem may have been more of a process to alleviate this harsh order. For a mere human, unable to defend oneself from falling debris weighing a few kilograms, it is a weakness that boils down to this limited physiological capacity. A frail, hopeless creature that could only lose its sanity in the face of a moving object is not meant to achieve great things, but what of this momentary peace I smell from the rustling leaves that fell when fall arrived? When I wake up after locking myself in a room that could barely accommodate my needs for personal space and look above the sky at exactly 5:30 in the afternoon, there is always a faint touch of honey above—as if the bees found their dwellings in the clouds and harvested nectars in these rich lands.

Most of the time, I could not fathom what life was. I do not recognize this consciousness and what existence is from reality: whether reality is a product of simply existing or that it has been woven alongside the concept of consciousness, and life is merely a way to represent them. Labored out of my mother's womb and forcibly raised in a social setting that mandated me to recognize my roots and honor the lives that pillared the life that I have now, I ended up resenting everything. I did not choose to be here and neither did I want to feel this shrill and impassioned need to know why I am here. It is being burdened by something that I initially did not want to be responsible for, but there were no options. If I put it more simply, perhaps it can be the same with how I have to climb those stairs in the CASS buildings every single time I rush towards the classroom before I end up getting late. Of course, I hate it. Climbing stairs would only hurt my heart and lungs but researchers would argue. It is perhaps, one of the best ways to improve humans' cardiovascular endurance.

How ridiculous.

I did not want to exist, but now I even have to take care of this body because I would still suffer if I didn’t. You see, I think I understand what is being so hard about this. In the presets that someone exists by biological processes that they don’t have control over, they must abide by the standards and norms that the age they are born in has established. If they do not, they would have to endure the backlashes of both internal and external forces with which, neither of the two can be underestimated. One has to carry the weight of the expectations and possibly… dreams that the primary groups they belong to have for them—while also continuously satiating this seemingly innate moral responsibility to bring answers to the questions of human existence.

For students who are studying to understand people and the social world that they have built while being among these "people", a sense of crisis is bound to be felt and braved against. The more one knows, the more they understand that they know too little. The more one climbs that stair, the heavier their breathing becomes. Sometimes, it is also a challenge when the realization hits: everyone is alone. This part of life can only be done solo because other people would not read and comprehend that book for you; neither will they take those steps for you. No matter how these social constructs try to make one feel that they have somewhere they belong to, a family, friends, and colleagues that will support them in the endeavors of this short-lived moment, it is too much to think that one can simply sit back and relax because these people will be responsible for everything that your human existence is obliged to fulfill.

For CASS students, the arachnids that represent the interwoven threads of the web that connect the people, the society and link ideas, passions, and wisdom on the constructs that emerge from the questions of mind, it is impossible to ignore this immense sense of duty to make it clearer to mankind what this complex existence is. In my system are tangled ideals, bound to dissonances and heuristics that I would want to eliminate but unable to. Perhaps, I can only slowly rearrange these webs through this accumulated knowledge I received after I climbed those stairs with a heavy heart. 

[coloredhands]

Harmony in Diversity

The world is a vast space of atoms and particles—circling around the air as if they cannot seem to rest. Every day, I see a beautiful ray of sun above and the clouds are at bay as the morning rise. Summer is also as beautiful as the birds in the azure skies. They make me feel like the mountains are breathing and their lushes echo in my ears. But it isn’t the voice that’s whispering unto my senses at the moment, neither the sight that engulfs my sense of appreciation to the environment and my existence in general. My neighborhood greets good morning, the same way Paris sheep says “bonjour!” People of different races, skin types and religion all gather in a colorful festival. The lanterns were like glowing stars hanging in wooden porches and roofs. Christmas lights of various colors were roaming the trees, continuously blinking as if they were winking at people. I went to my friends and greeted “Merry Christmas!” before we strolled around the plaza. I met grannies in their overbearing scarves, kids screaming in glee while mothers and fathers monitored them with eyes of the hawk. I couldn’t help but stop, and stare into the circle I’m in—realizing this place is a spherical representation of differences which plausibility I could not fathom. But in any way along the high way, it’s a good place to grow and learn!

[coloredhands]

Life into Lives

People say that life is beautiful and living is hard.

As I stared at the stunning moon in the night sky that seem to invoke a sense of curiosity in my young and inquisitive mind, I asked myself if there could be something more in life and living than its linguistic approach. Given that these words are classified differently as parts of speech, how could they be described distinctly when they are words with the same root? I tried to do my own research. I looked through texts and asked questions in hopes that they would make sense—but the books I read were exaggerating things and my parents couldn't give me the answer I need. Perhaps, it's because people understand life differently.

I grew up every day. Waking up in the morning to live with unprecedented turn of events made me realize that living is hard because it's unpredictable. I learned that things can happen in a blink of an eye, the same way how I went home from school one day without idea the world's going to change when the corona virus threatened humanity. Surrounding myself with people taught me how important it is to respect diversity—a person's principles, dreams, religion and race that shape him—it's my obligation to open my doors for them because the world's a big place. I also tried staying away from the crowd and observe how individuals communicate, thus, coming up with the conclusion that there's a force in this world responsible for the interconnectedness of everyone. Later on, I realized that it's life itself.

The fact that living organisms are capable of executing roles and actions in different contexts is the main idea why life is beautiful. Surely, it's hard to live everyday and move in any type of circumstances, but when viewed as a whole, it's actually a breathtaking view—to see how every organism that possess the privilege of being alive find their place in this world and prosper it. In a sense that it can easily be understood, it's like creating a garden in your preference. You can plant the trees you want to emerge from the soil. You can raise the flowers you want to bloom in their season. You have the freedom to make it as colorful, spacious and breathtaking as you want—because you are bestowed with the right to build your own garden. You are given the opportunity to showcase your capabilities in which your identity's determined.

Life is knowing that you're alive, and you're existing because you are going to achieve something great. It may never be the same with other people who have built a garden that occupies half of the world, but in the end, it's whether you are satisfied with what you achieved. You will find yourself thinking whether the space you own is enough for them and if you want other gardeners to have the chance to expand their own garden. Whether you want to show that garden to a few or you want the whole world to witness the price you reap from years of constant and repetitive processes. After all, the soil you have in the place you own may be rich or unhealthy, which results to a greater challenge in blooming your plants. Storms and dry seasons are also hard to survive that's why the foundation you ensure is very crucial. And yes, it's alright to be lacking with the resources you can use to make it stronger because you have neighboring gardeners that will be willing to lend a hand.

That is life—the privilege of being you. Life is becoming the garden you envision yourself to be and cooperate in paving the way towards a world vibrant of blossoms along with other gardeners. It's the chance to express one's creativity and purpose in the world—through collective experiences and systemic interaction with other living things—in which we can draw meaning to provide a contribution in shaping the holistic understanding of the world and our very own existence. Understanding the beauty of life requires you to live with other people and turn life into lives, no matter how arduous it can be.

[coloredhands]

Back and Forth

An abandoned home sat at the top of a hill. Matt and Briana knew the rumors about it, but they had to see it for themselves. They tiptoed their way up to the front door. It creaked slowly open. Inside hang a huge and vintage chandelier in the middle of the spacious hall. Its bulbs were out; the stylish and exquisite design of it mirrored that of a renaissance-themed interior. Brianna and Matt stepped inside the house and almost jumped in surprise when the door behind them slammed its way back to the doorway. Both of them exchanged looks before deciding to continue walking inside, their fists firm while their breaths were shallow and heavy.

The next seconds further accelerated as their heartbeats continued to fasten. With each step they take, the floor would produce an eerie sound that continued to linger at the back of Brianna and Matt’s minds. They were vigilant in their surroundings and continuously scanned everything they see. The living room looked grand and despite the accumulation of dusts and cobwebs in almost every corner of the room, it was still not enough to hide the fact that this place must be very beautiful during its peak. Brianna and Matt did not know what to feel. Aside from the arising fear in their hearts, they cannot also contain their excitement because they have been inseparable when it comes to adventurous things. Their curiosities have been very solid even when they were younger that is why they don’t hold back when peculiar things open paths for them to explore.

They continued walking around, not sparing any doors and corridors to peek through. Another hour passed and there was nothing they could find inside the house. Although it was big and spacious, Brianna and Matt did not come in contact with any supernatural and paranormal entities inside the abandoned house like what people usually talk about. They were starting to doubt the stories and speculations people say about the house when they heard a thud from a distance. They instantly ran to the direction of the sound and realized that it came from the living room. What they seen was more mysterious than they could ever comprehend.

[coloredhands]

the thing about me is I'm cute, laid back and easy going but in like a really intense and stressful kinda way

[coloredhands]

Until I Am

Once, I also had loved.

Long before the skies were blue and the clouds hang above.

But in this chrysalism… there is a forlorn sense of a silent loss,

shrill enough that even the restlessness was left in exhaust

Whelved beneath the puddles of mud and ground was a faint scent

of a sweet, little poppy that was once stained with red Perhaps, there is no honor for a flower that's dead

But at least it had bled.

Once, I was also a heart that has beaten

There were blossoms, swaying, chasing, as if announcing that this is Eden

and it must have been, because there lingered the scent of stars

that I told myself it was, that I told myself it has.

Once, I was also a fluttering butterfly

and there was a vast garden of nectar for me to glorify

whilst there up the Sun God was sighing, smiling, singing

He was there telling, whispering..! Promising that if the wind would send me up

He would let me ride the encompassing vapor, and it would not be unjust

The Sun God had all day but there is night…

and tomorrow is perpetual moonlight.

Once, I was also hateful

Desperately clinging unto the spring's cradle

I was never prepared for autumn's emptiness,

neither was I able to brood that the winter's chill would be no less

Been told that the seasons change sometimes, but what of this incessant tide

that my Sun God shall ne'er shine?

Once, I was also wilting

Plunged into the depths of abysmal hell and dying

Looking up to a world that no longer holds the sun

I was simply a flower that even a sliver of light held none

For such a short-lived prime, this heartburn is yet to be allayed

and maybe, this much can last for aye

Once, I also thought I lived

but there was only a broken tree that the tears have smeared

Surviving this cruel season never meant I would see again

the light that I woke up to, the sun that I have always looked up to

In passing, I knew that it might have been a parting

that served no "see you agains" but merely departing

but this seedling I shall nurture, these memories I shall treasure.

because

Once, I was also in love… and still am.

Until I am.

[coloredhands]

Over the Bridge, We’ll have more Poems to Read

Luna finally kissed this dilapidated shrine, standing by the Nile that spanned hundreds of miles.

Accompanying the tranquil sound of water was a broken sigh, seemingly woeful and aggrieved, marking the beginning of an endless tide.

In this dusk that cannot hide the stench of death far and beyond, there is a bitter taste of separation, yet a little bland.

Not any painful, but in the heart was a tinge of sad, like the hue of red beneath the blood moon above this forsaken land.

A series of footsteps rang, and the shrine's door was flung, Unhurried, a silhouette walked to the bridge, that of a man And followed him was a pale-faced child, scampering as she ran.

Despite the trashings of turbulent winds, the man crossed with a wave and the mut that followed him, momentarily stopped in a daze, only to realize that in this pursuit, she is unable to give chase.

On the other periphery were not flowers of spring, but an endless darkness that rendered the heart churning.

The lass called out to him, and one last time he did swing, On his lips was a painted smile, and a voice that was almost whispering,

“Over there is a paradise where I shall rest in peace, and tomorrow, when you also cross this bridge, wake me up and we shall have more poems to read.”

Yet the girl could only watch and not probe, unable to understand that perhaps, tomorrow is something someone else wrote, to make an eternal parting dazzle like hope.

[coloredhands]

Alma Luminaries

Change is a reflection of nurturing. A world that rejects learning, is a place doomed to eternal struggling. Rigid norms and constant racing for chances to receive a broken ring, tells much about the world that we are in.

Fear of the unknown created the floods, the greens dyed and sprinkled in blood. Below the heavens, there was a war of tug, where cowards laughed at those who judged, the will of life that the breeze hummed, and the power of insight beneath the bud.

The mother looked; a smile for her child. The youngster stared back, heart unreconciled. Thinking he was casted out and exiled, the days to praise were wasted behind. But the years went by and soon he realized, nothing is impossible with an open mind.

So soon the young started a world, where he could share what he overturned. A dark age of intellect; feared and purged, now becomes an era for knowledge to serve. The future looked back, their hearts churned. For that time was when the earth and firmament surged.

[coloredhands]

The Lost Poet

A heart beats for things like love and time

Lyrics form structure and they become fine

A harmony garnish orchestras and words collide

For pieces of art bring reason to exaggeration and spectres' of mine

A poet sits in a wood polished with oil and its aroma reached his nose

For a while, his senses cherished the savor and his feelings from far away rose

His hands caressed a shining pen before eyes roamed an unfamiliar note

It was a poem written with clean hands, but the message wasn't sown

Neither his mind nor his comprehension understood the writer's words

For it was asymmetrical, static, and ill to the morse

The linguistics implied seemed lost and barren like an empty grassland at most

But what made him stop was the name he once forgotten and loathed

Lies just above the poetry was a composer's name

Infamous to tragedy and his love for exquisite pain

He was known, he was called for dark ruins and remains

Yet, the poet's creation were considered invalid and insane

Astonished, the writer realized it was no other than his pseudonym

The lost poet who wrote ghosts of past and people's sin

He whose words petrify perception but never brought means

Was the keen who tried to make his melancholy seem

[coloredhands]

Swords are Drawn, Flowers have Bloomed

Spirits of the thousand islands beneath lush, azure skies were raconteurs of ideals and logic,

Peaceful evenings gloomed to chaos when cruel governance befell from colonists' dark magic,

White-skinned "heroes" plunged the savages in vanquish with English battle cries and Sarzuela war songs,

The inculcation evolved from feeble to harsh as chinky swordsmen beat their defeaning gongs,

Not long passed when blood yielded the land for flowers to finally bloom,

The void firmament that shed tears also poured fertility feigned as thick clot for blossoms to arouse from the loom,

Those years of swords clashing were told as the years flipped and it become successful stories to tell the moon.

[coloredhands]

Intangible

I see myself always in a mutiny

Rebellious to the waves of the endless sea

But always have I believe in my telescope

For beyond the horizon lies something like hope