dreams

i remember being told how much people despair or relish the occasions of the past, worry and expect on the offers of the future. a soul, if it exists, would most likely just pass on, perhaps ever evading the only known fact of life that the body dies, and a soul, if it exists, would just move on. from one life to another. or one dream to another.

dreams are supposed to be the place where the soul wanders when you are sleeping. the soul sometimes relives what the body experienced and sensed, what the brain perceived and interpreted. at times, the soul merely fathoms the bits and pieces of what your life is made of - memories, wishes, thoughts, feelings. at waking, we forget. there are times when we remember.

mine was a dream sequence of a bohemian soul. in four disjointed parts, separated by moments of apparent wakefulness.

the first, surrounded by a throng - cubs, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, friends - of tigers. the second, the soul seeing its life connections - mother, father, sisters, brothers, relatives, a soon-to-be family - vanishing their grip from the dream reality. the third, playing four main casts of four broadway musicals singing the four main songs, wearing the four different costumes, and acting the four main roles, at the same time.

the fourth. a soul which looked similar to me was alone inside a dense dream forest.

when you start to walk away

this time of the year, i noticed, must be when flowers are eager to bloom. i also recently noticed how i subconsciously conditioned myself to anticipate the scent of sampaguita lining the narrow alleyway to home. you, i know, of all people, can appreciate this more.

you asked me a few times before if you can call me dear, love, or darling. i simply brushed aside the idea, as if i never heard or it should not matter. but it did and it still does. especially now that we have not heard from each other for a month or so and just recently, not seemingly out of hindsight or a lapse of intent, you referred to me as brother. i never heard, i never read, it should not matter, i thought, but somewhere deep inside stung. that i might have just taken that alleyway of forever losing the expectation and anticipation of perhaps a more committed walk with you. just like any flower to lose the fragrance and be forgotten. a solitary shadow dying by the onset of forever light.

the walk home

i walked home today. sort of out of myself, de-spirited in a way by perhaps the too many lager bottles over an extended lunch and intensive exchanges. i had to walk home. two kilometers, more or less, it seems. to breathe out. sweat out. the grogginess of my movement. the fogginess of my head.

descending kimche

machhapuchhre from tadapani