Archive for July, 2011

Destruction: Uncertain reality within folds of obscurity.

Listen to: Oltremare (Meaning, Overseas) – Ludovico Einaudi.

Once upon a time; no, not a time, once upon a winter, no, not sure if it was winter, once upon a March – no, it could not have started then.

Once upon the unknown lived her, with them, with those, with these, and all of them. Once upon a dream, she was happy. She was told the euphoria she felt was not temporary, and it was true happiness at last. Her sins have corrupted her to the extent that she feels no atonement, no remorse, no regret, nothing; zero, zilch, nada.

Part of being guilty is knowing when to stop, is believing deep down that no matter how bottomless it may be, she shall land gracefully when she submits her soul for acceptance, when she lets go of retaliation and live for the moment.

Everyone sins, you know. We are no angels or prophets. We are made of flesh and breakable bones. We are but a mere crack in a perfect portrait filled with insanity. We are not sane, no. We cannot be. Part of becoming a sinful being is understanding our actions and their impacts on his, and then doing them regardless of the consequences. That is what defines a sin from a deed and vice versa. What if, however, we are at haze and cannot define what from what. What if we do the wrong thing for the right reasons, or the right thing for the wrong reasons; which becomes which, and will we ever be judged for our mindless experimentations in this forsaken life?

Let the preacher preach about purity and clarity while he climaxes with his mistress, let politicians lie their way into and out of corruption, let the saint listen through the confessional as those blind followers confess to their seemingly sinful actions as he robs yet another charity, let the elite spend the money of the poor on plastic surgeries and resorts abroad, yes, yes let them. Let them tie strings around us and move us as puppets as they please. Yes, yes, let them. Let governments promise citizens overdue reforms as they kill those who demand them.

Condemn the clerk for making us pay a few pounds extra, so his children will dream of bread once a week. Condemn the child who wipes our car windows under the sun, so his tears clean his face as he walks home. Condemn the gardener for overwatering the plants, so he learns that flowers and mud are more important than his children’s future. Condemn activists who dared to defy the stereotype, so we throw them in jail and pay for their torture with our taxes. Yes, yes, condemn.

Condemn protesters in your country, yes, condemn them, how dare they scream out freedom? How dare they endanger their lives for this absurd myth? How dare they get shot by the police? How dare they get beaten to death by uniforms? Condemn them, throw them in jail, torture them, sing for the rich, and kill the poor.

Pay for executions, pay for the loss of our privacy, pay, yes, pay, we sold our soul to them the moment we hushed when they ordered us to hush, the moment we nodded when they forced our heads to nod, the moment we believed a poorly painted picture over the disgusting reality they burned, yes, pay them, we owe them everything.

A sin is to be silent when speaking is costly. A sin is to stand firm when moving is the only way out, the only way out.

Zombie nation: The revolution of silence.

Listen to: Dustin O’Halloran – Open Letters.

She sways to the moon in steady motion. Its gravity pulls her towards the skies, and pushes her away – gently. Her eyes speak a thousand words between every blink and the other. The repetition of nightmares has been keeping her sleepless for days. She craves sleep like a lover’s first kiss. Her raw emotion walks her miles and miles to the sea as her thirst grows more and more.

At times – she sat on the edges of eternity and imagined the moon could speak. What wonders will it say; she wonders. The temptation to hear a heaving moon’s cry persists to return whenever lurid nightmares waken her with fright. Tree branches knock timidly on her window, as the music of birds chirping stable her heartbeat.

The sins we commit sometimes take the best of us. We assume we know best, when in fact, we do not. As we attempt to forgive ourselves, we overlook minuet details that help in the self-destruction route we unintentionally take. Our behavior affects those near us most. If only one would take the time to consider, appreciate, and understand – the world might be in peace, or at least, peace would not be a myth heard through mosque pulpits on Friday prayers, or from a church choir on a Sunday evening.

Perhaps if we assume that we do not actually live in a world where the mythological ‘peace’ exists then we would at least realize the sins we’ve committed in quest of it. Or maybe we could at least stop pretending that we believe in this peace puppet show we are lead to believe by propaganda and government ‘not’ owned media.

When the industrial revolution begun, everyone was rushing to educate themselves, to read, to learn about enslavement, tyranny, to fight back – now, we are at a seemingly similar situation, trying to liberate ourselves from the iron fist clutched at the throat of the Middle East, we turn on the television, rest on our potato couches and ask to be fed lies after lies. Then, when we can barely keep our eyes open, we walk as zombies to sleep as others are detained and murdered for demanding their rights.

After all, politicians do what they do best: lie. It is not new, but our ignorance, our profanity in silence and submission has reached new lows. We are not as helpless as they make us believe. Alas, we are to blame for our own stupidity.

We fear fear itself, not detention, not death, but fear. How weak we have become sickens me at times, more than I can tolerate. I wonder at times if screaming out the window of a car, or painting a bold ‘wake up’ statement on a state building in some fancy city would feed anything but my artistic needs. We are but in denial of our own stupidity and refuse to believe how costly our silence truly is. And I wonder – If our silence was that loud, how would our voices be when united?

She wakes up from yet another nightmare. The moon has not yet spoken, the trees no longer knock on her window, and the birds have gone silent at dawn. How ironic it is to see everything clearly amidst complete darkness, when blind in presence of brightest of lights.