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February is slipping away, pulling back the stigmata winter has pierced through our palms.
I sing praises to the approaching March hoping it would help in crippling all chaotic
sensations that have been overpowering me almost to the point where I cease to care
whether the illuminated moon can still bleed vulnerable lights into innocent eyes.
The barrenness of empty pages in my notebook reminds me of how I have callously
neglected my duty to convey my inner thoughts (hard to believe my head once housed
a waterfall of words that flowed in non-stop motions.) My hand forgets how it feels
to have a pen snuggled comfortably within. The appearing of the symmetric silhouette
of spring starts to sharpen my memory of those passionate days when I favored
resurrecting unfinished concertos to scrubbing a tiled floor.
Some would say when winter makes you feel the bites viscerally, you should curse
the season, but I don't. I loved the excitements that came with it. Who could forget
how bright the gifts could look in deep shadows beneath the Christmas tree? Although
my spirit dampened because of an unfortunate illness befallen on my loved one, I managed
to uphold the gaiety of the holidays pretending everything was all right, was going to
be all right. I couldn't really blame winter for being unkind. I simply accused myself
for harboring desperation too deep within my wanting; for everything to go on forever.
When I failed to convince myself of that possibility, I knew my hands would curve
pretending to cup imaginary pomegranates, ready to serve up to the gods in exchange for
the favor.
I now ache beneath the pile of the crumbled failure. In kneeling position, I bow low,
not to pray but to hide the symmetry of light that ricochets silently inside my tears.
© 2/28/04
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