My Beer Glass

The glass is filled to its brim.

All the care in the world wouldn't change it good. That one darn thing is all it is waiting for. But I am not. In the past I dreaded because I am not. Like I said, it died already.

Carefully balancing on shaky limbs, the glass went everywhere I went. It's hard to hold and harder to leave it alone.

So what now? Holding a full glass can't take you far. But I am too stubborn about my own assumptions. Who claims to know what's next? I wouldn't bow if I see one now. So let me have my way. I would put it down if you back off. Shoo!

Likeness! See?

How are we to co-exist? I liked what I hear back then. The question must be given thought. Narrow it down -- what would you like to see?

Should we argue? Timing is over-rated. Too quick or too slow in action, you have just drawn yourself something to compare and you are likely to judge. Eventually you fall into your own trap, thinking either more or lesser about yourself.

Falling. Can we associate it with enjoyable? Make it free and gravity-less. Clarity is for those who want it.

If you don't, why even mind holding grudge?

Sportsmanship

I was drowning. If it weren't for that nerve-wrecking game of Cool Kidz in the evening, I would have forgotten to try kicking and pushing the water underneath me. The sportsman loses as a fighter and beats himself while his imaginary team of probably his own seven souls cheers him on. He was on this losing side and the winning end too. As nature has it all the while.

Begging for a lifeline that would never be thrown. Everybody is too occupied, hands and mind. You got to save yourself.

The couch potato found the lost spirit. Listened. It still is there, eh?

Who is that cheeky rascal watching these people living these lives of theirs? Look at the games and the desire to win. Ingrid thinks it isn't bad to be a loser. But she never live on for people to listen to her or find any of what she says bearing sense. Soon, all is forgotten and people pride themselves with poppings of the same old revelations.

Nearing the day of remorse, the familiar pictures are undesirable. You just don't want to be the same. The truth says it's not, if you mind listening. This is an earth-size shoe. You can actually let it slip if you want. Or take it in like a battery-charger. Otherwise, it won't do much good. Of all the voices, you hear the loud people trumpeting on their ego. Not wrong. Just theirs.

I am feeling pretty invisible these days. Slowly turning into a stranger. The fight is personal. I just am reluctant to kill myself for reasons that I think I'd forget after I die, considering my very little sense and memory.

Let me or not, I am still looking up.  

The Moon is Full

I have a human heart.

This heart, is not at peace. It keeps stealing away the focus. Wanting to peek at the stupid mobile device. What is it you wanna see so much? It is all just people. People. So is that it?

Writing, maybe it wants. It wants. It wants but it can't. It can't stay. Still.

I now half-dragging it along. See? Let's sit here and tap away. Tap away madly to your content. Stop bothering the eyes. I know its you. Not them. They are curious twin. Not a doubt. But I know I can give them candies far better than what you are trying to get them to do right now. Stay with me.

Now, I, we have been reading. Quite a lot lately compared to 2012 when the world was cracking. We couldn't take in the words. They meant nothing. For they were all dark and deadly then. HUGE difference in the air surrounding us. All things were wrong. Insane. But they were in the past. They died.

We hide in books, don't we? If not, we will be jumping back into the head. In fact, I just snap out of it. We know all the secrets are in there. Life just had to get us away. We can't stop questioning and discussing. Making one conclusion after another. Then trash them. Then something comes up again. This circle, fool it may be, makes sense because the pain is always self-inflicted.

I made my way into the first chapter of Huckleberry Finn. Memory of it must have been erased, I sigh. How could I forget? This time, maybe I will sink into a clearer plane as the words transform into pictures and crash into the wider forehead. The words and language are a fun to read. So unconventional that I just wanna tap on the old man writing with his feather pen. Excuse me, sir. This is enjoyable. It even made my human heart all shiver-ie... He would smile back. Lick at the tip of his pen. And go back writing under his hunch.  

Ahh... how strangely friendly can a soul be? They hide behind their scripts and pull at the strings of hearts let lose in deep hypnotism.

I can't wait for night to fall and the full moon to rise. Then can I open up to another chapter of Einstein. To have him looking from my bed, I have to tell him to wait. There will be a time. A time for anything. And for a wonderfully self-full thing like him, time will always be eagerly ticking. No absolute time you say, eh? I will trust Isaacson for as long as he keeps me counting.  

My restless heart, will you cheer up... and make peace for the soul on a full moon?