The Leaning Power of Pity

Don’t you dare to lean on me,

For my bones are dry.

Don’t you dare to cry a sea,

For my marrows are wry.

 

You ask one who’s trapped in sand

To run your world, while she’s drowning in hers.

“Come on, let’s make a fairyland,”

Said you who she wants to curse

 

With speech in honey and milk.

To entice with a politician’s promises,

My tongue my ancestors’ silk;

But what, then, are the purposes?

 

Please learn from the role

That priced glistening coal

With centuries of wait: a mere symbol

of true love so civil.

 

So then shouldn’t the amour

symbolized worth millenniums, if not a whole lot more?

Turtles

It was raining as though God got mad and decided to wipe out all creations, again, except she felt a little more upset this time since she did not get an invitation to the ark of salvation like her ancestors did.

Still in disbelief as to why she did not get the invite, she went to wait by the nearest body of water, large enough to be called a lake, and yet dirty enough to be a pond. Turtles wandered around in troops, oblivious to the world about them dissolving.

She didn’t know why she was so captivated by them, the turtles’ retarded actions staring at what may very well be filling up their home with drudge. So, she stood there, watching, as the shells, hardly visible in the barrage of icy rain, gliding across the dense surface.

Ripples crashed, fought, tore each other apart; for resonance is irrelevant and entropy rules. They drank the sands and muds and pebbles of the banks, climbed, danced like savages. She glared, daring the waters to claim her.

“Are you blameless enough to throw the stones at me?”

The muddied water said nothing, does nothing. Its heavenly brethren continued to beat down against all surfaces, matting her hair, thinning her clothes.

She saw the little heads peeking from the surface of the lake-pond, partially submerged shells seemingly reminiscent of a path for her to cross the pond by. Winds whipped, snipped, and dug for her bones. By the time she realized that she was cold her fingers were blue.

Ah, so they refused to throw stones at her, but chose to claim her this way instead.

Out of stubbornness she continued to watch the turtles float by, bobbing in the lessening rain since God was so sick of the world that He did not even think it is worth the effort to continue crying over. So winds swept over and eternalized the waters, the ripples slowed to melodically jab at each other. Though, she was so sick of the tears that she did not even bother blinking, unlike her icicle lashes would let her.

So sunlight trailed behind dreary rains, eager to see the spectacle of the frozen girl. The sky said blue, and the waters stank, while guilty, the turtles retreated into muddy depths.

Chinese New Year

This is the time of the year when I am typically encouraged to do things in excess: eat a lot of traditional foods that are supposedly directly related to good luck, smile a lot at church friends or relatives like a seasoned politician meeting their voters as ballets of judgement in the form of gossips are casted, cringe a lot as the presence of my father guarantees unnecessarily awkward situations and grin a lot as the red, incensed envelopes under pillows are a lot more detectable than the princess’s pea.

Or perhaps it could be more like yesterday night — for just like Christmas, the actual feasts of Chinese New Year happens the night before — just the four of us at home, the winds whipping windows while we wait for one of us to ruin the moment of seeming perfection.

Murder in the Dark

“Murder in the Dark,” screamed the white text. What a peculiar name for a tart, I made a mental note.

Being a sucker for playful language and a shipper for chocolate and raspberries, I made my purchase, “May I have a murder in the dark, please?” The phrase sounded absurd when said aloud.

The clerk blinked, then smiled, “Sure” and clicked buttons.

I was walking home with the plastic bag dangling in my hand when I saw my shadow joined by another. I thought it my sister, or a friend, who found me and snapped around to say hi.

A shadow met me, like chocolate drowning the red colors of the tart, a liquid shadow that choked, murdered, smothered me in the dark.

A Piece of Cake

The line was a fine copy of the Great Wall of China. Still, it was much better than the actual thing: less death, more beautiful aromas.

Yes, he should focus on the aroma instead of the irrelevant nostalgia that may very well offend everyone. The smell was so intoxicating…the mixture of water vapor and cream cheese and honey swirled about him like curious sprites.

It was almost just as wonderful as a certain sprite from his memory, blurred by brutal suppression…

…What was he thinking about again?

Anyway, he stuck out in a line composed of stereotypical demographics of people with sweet tooth: girls, mothers with children…still, he had all the time of the world, anyway.

Among the deep murmurs and occasional distraction of “ooh”s and “ahh”s for the newest batches of jiggling mounds of sugar and cream cheese whipped to imitate air. Though a display window whose pane of glass protecting pastry chefs and their steely machines from the curiosity and spit. Or, could it simply be trapping the rest of the dreamy aromas? How cruel, for them to show them the world on what they missed out on.

THe main spectacle wasn’t too far from the suppressive undertones either, featuring a chef facing rows of cakes with a heated iron, reaching, branding. Plain moon faces now further uniformed with a patch of darkened gold uplifted from vapor screams, a name, a logo. Passes that permit passage onto a journey of nicely packaged paper boxes.

He ordered, paid, took one of the millions.

The drive home was not noteworthy, so he would not waste time.

By the next time his mind was focused and yet drifting enough to be metaphysical, he had committed the most sacrilegious murder that broke ope the perfect circle of the cake.

Is nostalgia just nightmares when its warmth is removed?

For the slice ruining perfection was cut by selfishness, a bite the death of infinite bubbles that met the same end as Andersen’s little mermaid. A noble sacrifice.

The tinge of sweetness on the tip of his tongue dulled him from understanding that drip of water that landed on the back of his hand.

What had he done? He beheld the crumbs surrounding the remainder of his slice. What had he done? He mushed the crumbs together, mushed the memories together.

His betrayal…he levied the heavy word on himself for cowardice and hesitance and weakness constitute as failure to fulfil his promises.

He traced his glare back to the round cake, for his slice broke the brand in the middle: can he exercise his extended metaphors to bring hope and end this dreary narrative? Should this be a mere setup to another series?

No…he’s not willing to talk. There’s no more time.

He set down the fork.

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This post is inspired by this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wEwwmE8OLk