Here and Now

First the burner, and now the media player's ranting about its job... Damn. Now I can't watch episode 8 of HYD... Here's to boredom.

Queerly speaking, I love holding someone else's hand. Not that I'm a freak or something, but I love the way how fingers intertwine around that of another's... It makes me feel secured, giddy in an inexplicable way.

I went book shopping yesterday - although I didn't buy any; can't call them book window shopping, anyway - and I got hooked into reading this Philippine Publication entitled "Sin". It's a new book. Mavy forgot the author. Heh. For one, it is quite sinful for a read. Lots of erotic scenes. Especially one with a geisha... Kind of reminded me of Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha. It will be shown in the movies soon. Ditsi (semi-evil) has read this as well.

Kat Miranda, one of my fellow debaters in CSTP, got me addicted to some masochistic genre of poetry for the past two weeks now. Mind you, they're damn good!

Here's one:
[-1-]
Listen, I sold my dreams for you.
There is no bribing of the gods these days, no easy sacrifices;
his arrows were hot fire that ravaged my veins and broke through the sunrises
to leave me panting, dragon-breathed and dying,
never to love anyone but you.
He asked me if they were stolen, these dove-winged dreams
broken open, spilt against the pillow, red-veined and blue-blooded.
I assured him they were not.
He told me they were not enough for a fairytale;
imitations are cheap these days, the real thing priced like venetian glass.
I let him see the pain panted out like fire upon my tongue.
I let him taste the thought of your heartbeat and the brittleness of my own,
worn thin through pacing, a caged lioness' death row walk.
He promised me the best my dreams could buy.
How was I to know it would never be enough?

[-2-]
I invite you in under a sky of blood;
in past the tides of my breath and the paper-thin tissues of my skin,
peeling away like the rotting clouds so that you may nestle into the core of me,
the stinging wounds of a beating heart.
There you crouch until you unfurl, sphynx-like and searing,
flames licking into the glided chambers of my beating blood until I am broken
and bleed rivers of gold.
You never loved me, I say to you, and you leave me lying, burning,
the last wick of a dying flame.
You walk away with my heart like nectarine flesh in your hands, pulsing and hot.
I see you and my eyes swallow you whole before I burn away.

[-3-]
The remnants of you will cling to me
until I am scattered back to the birthplace of the gods and buried with my futile dreams
Every moment will taste like you, bitter and branding,
and in shop windows I will see your reflection,
I will hear your voice just before sleep smothers my lips,
I will catch the autumn gold of you out of the corner of my eye,
My life will be attuned to you, a static-filled picture stained with you,
and you will be the jagged edge on every piece of me.
In death, I think that Charon will have your eyes
and until I wade into the waves where neither of us exist,
I will burn for no one else.

That's not actually the whole thing, barely half of it. But ain't it good shit? Heehee. Gotta love poetry!
I do not know the author, by the way. The words ain't mine, they're borrowed. I think they're from some HP fanfic. Hope I guessed right.
To be able to read one, you have to go through crap in the Internet, as Kat and I would say. But patience is a virtue. See what it bore?
Kat's a blessing to my vehemence.

I can only dream that I can write poems as good as this. I cried over these texts, seemingly tearing your heart from the inside and piercing it with an unreadable tattoo. Yet, it is but sheer impalpability to one who has acknowledged the importance of pain to one that dares to love unconditionally. Its sadness burns your very core, while its remains lurk like provoking ashes from within.

I wonder what made them write with such torment.