when will this end?

this pain/anger/hurt/hate/grief accompanies me wherever i go. it’s as if i’ve made forged my pledge of undying friendship to them. but how about love/joy/peace? whenever i have this trinity the great pentagon would immediately snatch away the serenity and replace it with tears.

sometimes i get tired of myself, my musings, my rants for they are all shallow. the things i want are all lost in oblivion, my oh so twisted past.

right now, i’d exchange everything for my memories. take all of them and maybe the pentagon will leave me forever.

i will shut my world from others for i will only bring harm to them, then eventually, to myself. if there’s someone whom love needs to embrace, it has always been myself.

I feel most free when I am unsure of myself—standing as the cold wind seeping through my bones, the uncertainty posed by the stillness of the night, the uneasy calmness of unraveling before the break of light—another day.

I smell what is left of the earth that men came to inhabit a long time ago. I’m struggling to remember what it is like without us—just the clouds, the moon and the stars, everything without humanity.

What would it be like to be the wind that touches my skin? What would it be like to be the sky—always far beyond reach? What would it be like to be the moon serenely bowing to the benevolence of the sun? What would it be like to be truly free?

 What I see tonight is the triumph of freedom, when humanity rests and sleeps, when not a single soul wishes to rise above everything his/ her eyes set upon.

I want to hear nothing else but the raging splendor of the falling rain. It may hold anger, anguish or even pride. Still, its greatness is unsurpassable. I bow down to the glory of the rain, together with the deafening thunder. The imposing elegance of the lightning.

I dread the things I love. I can never be with them. They’ve only little time left to be with me. This is the only thing I know about love—letting go. This I’ve forgotten. I could only love from afar, this is the only chance that I would be able to give them value.

I need to be alone to love, and maybe, to be loved.

I may not be able to control the waves of emotions I experience by the minute, at least I have friends that can accept me for who I am and I am not.

A person can love as much as one wants, as many as one desires; but still, one must never allow oneself to fall into the trap of loving the other so much that one forgets the self as the creator of that love. Whenever this happens, one doubts all relations that one may had and have and may have. This is the death of the once faithful and hopeful servant. One cannot love again as much as one had loved before.

If some twist of fate meddled upon the distraught lover, one may be forced to encounter another beloved that may only injure the sheathed heart turning it into a penumbra of lamentations and silenced tears, of sleepless nights and blank musings or the lover may give us the one of nature’s greatest miracles—

love that endures;

love that knows no bounderies;

love that succumbs all hurts, pains, sufferings and unwarranted guilt;

love that never blinds but sheds light on what truth is, on what the good is supposed to be;

love that leads to happiness beyond words;

love that is incomparable even to music that lulls the soul;

love that will be forever true surmounting the end of time;

love that saves;

a love that loves and nothing else.

Love! If this is the last thing that one has to do.