mind's a mess
You are a society
each piece of you exists separately
in different places
and the struggle is to contain them all
in one body.
but like some societies,
you crumble
in dissimilarities; in polarities, in opposing thoughts—
you collapse from the inside,
from the treason of your own people
you are a society,
a civilization that sees no future
except a summer of bones and debris,
and all other casualties
you are a society,
the one history writes about
merely a lesson
—nl
There was once a quadruplet of girls
who were born with wings
These girls were never seen alone
for they had each other as home
One day, the youngest
found a very beautiful lake
but the sisters refused to go with her
for they did not know the place
It was their destiny, they said
to think and live exactly the same way
so the youngest hid her true wishes
One night, while her sisters were asleep
the youngest went out of bed
and snuck out for the first time in years
She found the wide lake so dazzling
And here, she felt most free
But her sisters had found her
and they decided to punish her
by cutting out her wings
so she could no longer leave
“But sister,” the youngest said,
once her wings fell
“If we are to live exactly the same way,
shall you not suffer my pain as well,
shall you not look like me this way?”
And since that night
the four of them had become like
the swans who could not fly
painting by reme junior (dance of the little swans)
One night, the moon disappeared.
It was strange, but what was even more bizarre was that nobody seemed to think that something was wrong.
The streetlamps provided enough light, they said. And nobody needed the moon, anyway.
Nobody except a girl named Aliah. For she loved the moon so dearly.
One night, as Aliah was crossing a bridge, she saw a boy lying down on the riverbed. He was alive but barely so. “Who are you?” asked the girl.“I’m the moon,” said the boy. The boy explained that it was his wish to become a human and now it was granted.
“Why?”
“Because I did not want to be lonely up there.”
Aliah then asked him what his plans were. Discovering that he had nowhere to go, she offered him companionship. Now, Aliah was not the type of person to easily trust others but for the boy, she made an exception.
For a few months, they lived together as friends.
The boy thought how strange it was that Aliah had nobody else in her home, while the rest of the village kids live with their parents. Aliah told him that she had been orphaned since she was very young. Her grandmother who had kept her had recently passed away.
And now, she was all alone.
“Don’t you feel lonely?” he asked her.
“I have memories of them with me. So when I feel lonely, I just think about it and it’s enough to make me happy.”
“Are memories enough?”
“It’s not. But better than nothing, right?” she told him.
He smiled. “I guess.”
The next morning, the boy had woken up early to ask Aliah to come with him to the foot of the mountain. There, he would bid farewell to her and return to the sky as the moon.
When Aliah asked him why, he simply told her,
“Because I’m not lonely anymore.”
“But when you go back up there, won’t you feel lonely again?”
“I won’t. I now have memories of us!”
“But are they enough?”
“They’re not. But better than nothing, right?” he told her.
Aliah smiled.
–nl
her body in the waters
flow naturally
like Lotus along a stream–
her curves embracing the waves
impeccably
as though the spring arises
from her skin
and the rain sprinkles
to her feet
.
.
photo: engin akyurt
I write about wanting to die a lot of times. It’s not that I’m suicidal or anything. I don’t hate life at all (I mean not entirely) but I just feel like something has to be better than this. It’s just too sad to think how the universe is so wide and yet we’re all stuck in this ugly, cruel world.
I just feel like I don’t belong here.
Does it mean I’m all eager about the idea of death? Do I romanticize it? Do I dream about it?
To be frank, I’m not. I’m actually scared of it. Call me a coward but I’m really, really scared of it. And I think I’m not alone in saying this. Most of us have a fear of death because it’s so uncertain.
We don’t really know what would happen– would there be an afterlife? Would our souls wander in endless darkness, just floating aimlessly, slowly getting sucked in a black hole? Would there be hell, heaven? Anything in between? Would there be a god or was the universe just faceless all this time?
Maybe, maybe there’s just nothing at all. You just simply don’t exist anymore. Your soul, all gone. Vanished. Nothing left, not even a trace. Your bones would remain buried beneath the earth, but nobody sees you, and not even yourself so you’re just as good as nothing.
All the memories inside your head and all the footprint of life would just be engulfed in a void.
It scares me, I guess.
When I say I want to die, I don’t mean that I don’t want to exist anymore. I want to, but just not in this world.
Your reality is different from someone else’s.
You could walk in the same place but see different skies. You could live in one neighborhood, but experience a universe poles apart.
The old man beside you could go home to a dying cat. The driver on the street might be waiting for his cheating wife. And there’s a kid on the street selling roses—enough said.
From a distance, everything looks simple. We follow the street signs, we move in chaotic synchrony. We wear a façade. A model of society that philosophers and social scientists have been struggling to define.
But if you look deeper, there’s a part of us that longs to detach from this world. As much as we want to belong, we want to feel distinct. We want to feel special, at least to others.
Because the truth is, no matter how different our realities are, we also long for someone to share it with. We want someone to step in our reality and see what we see.
At the end of the day, we want to be understood.
But for others to understand us, we must understand them too.
words: nl
photo:Ezra Bailey/Google
The city sheds its last wink of light
as darkness beams a haze of lies
The parasite awakens as all men cry
not to fear, but to admire!
For men are fools, senses blind;
Reason is but a dose of crime
to the stage hailed by thespians
with an audience of mindless swine!
-nl
art by vaxo.lang
Philippines, they hire you for cheap
and your women sell their daughters
for a night’s worth of meal.
Philippines, they laugh at your diplomats
and steal your seas under the daylight
but your president will still kiss their fucking ass.
Philippines, your Marites goes to church
at Sundays yet worships the death squads on the streets.
Philippines, they call you
the sick man and the poo-wipers, and your youth fake their accents,
dye their hair blonde, and bleach their skin white.
Philippines, their dream is to forsake you.
Philippines, what are you so proud of, then?
That Hollywood extra who has a “Filipinx” great-grandmother
whom he probably never even knew?
That pageant where the less Filipino blood you have,
the more qualified you look?
That Chess player you never supported until he was claimed by another?
Philippines, what can you be so proud of,
when your people make themselves a joke?
***
Faux pride will not do anything except probably worsen it by making it appear how famished we are for validation.
First world countries don’t give a damn about it. They have real sources of pride: their technology, economy, cultural values, and good governance. I hope one day, the Philippines will boast something it can truly be proud about.
Papa, the smell of juniper and mint lingered
on your breath
as you pecked me on the cheeks
your beard pressing like rugged pavements
You said, shh don’t let mama know
You buried your face on the pillows
the empty bottle bursting into smithereens, the stars blinking
Then there were footsteps, like drum beats
without a rhythm
a loud gasp, a bobcat screeching
a fox gone hysterical
Shh, you whispered, curses showered on your back
off to your dreamland, you once said
cause wars were not meant for little girls
but I heard them anyway
inspired by My Papa’s Waltz by Theodore Roetzke
The sun is famished
Slightly euphoric
The greens have fainted
Nights,
Metamorphic
A sinking horizon
Hamlet looming
A stale visit
mocking of a Raven
Madness
a mirror stain
phantom and flesh
wooing a moonless stage
The rivers wilt
the dark reaps
a silent woodland,
sculpting a cliff.
MESSYPENS 