The Prosaic and the Profound

The hours in a day are too short- Almost like a blink of an eye. One moment I am alive and jumping, The next I am about to die. The minutes in an hour are too short, Too short to find a family, A family where you belong to So consider yourself lucky. The seconds in a minute are too short, Too short for laughters to linger, If only money could buy time, I would simply buy "forever". The hours in a day are too short, Too short for irretrievable fun. Our time is running out per second, And a final second will stop that run.

When you broke your bread and gave half of it to me-  cold and hungry-, were you not my brother and I,your sister bounded not by blood but by that victorious kindness which our Father in His mercy,bequeathed and placed, even in the remotest part of our corrupted hearts? I had spent a year on travels and self-indulgence. I had spent money on slaking my caprice. Where did it brought me? I wouldn't deny I had wasted so much resources just to snake my way out of this lethal cycle of aimlessness, assuming that out of that circle, a magical way for escape will be paved by such trifles. But I ended up running around in that circle. Lost and defeated by my own unfulfilled desire for direction, I kept to myself. I built a wall between me and people around me. I began to abhor and get rid of their company. I pursued a passion for absenteeism and tardiness at work as an act of rebellion against an exploitative employment. Then the hatred I felt for everything and everyone around...

A bird perched on an electrical wire outside our house- If it could be called a house rather than a four-walled room A tiny bird it is, so tiny I could not even see its face, With its breast so red and its wings so black. The tiny bird flew and perched on top of our wall- Just the same wall at the back of our four-walled room. It was joined by a tinier bird with a brown face, And they looked at me silently. "Look at that poor girl in that four-walled room," Said the first bird to the second. "Look at that four-walled room in this four-walled lot," Said the second to the first. "I really hope someone will help her and set her free," Said the first bird to the second. "So she can fly freely just like us," Replied the second bird to the first. And both birds flew away, Leaving me alone again- In this four-walled room in a four-walled lot With nothing but a memory of two birds.

There is a beggar on the sidewalk Who doesn't sleep nor talk, He only holds out his hands for alms And accepts everything without a qualm. There is a different beggar who walks the sidewalk and wishes her heart turns into a rock Yet she's plagued by a spiritual poverty, That miserable, walking beggar is me.

I emptied a tumbler of water, Poured it all down my throat. Again, another tumbler of water And again, a third tumbler of water. I asked myself halfway toward emptying the third- Could there be any other tumbler as empty as this? Poor tumbler of water, Emptied to the bottom To fill the emptiness inside of me. And I asked myself- Could there be anyone as empty as me?

There were times before when I felt like being swallowed by a tidal wave. Despite all emotions it may had evoked from me, I found comfort in it. It was comforting that I was too overwhelmed and such intense feelings are meant to be felt. They make life interesting. I couldn't imagine living a life with nothing happening at all. Of course it would be too exagerrated to say nothing is happening at all. What I am pertaining to is a life where everyday is like yesterday and yesterday was like the other day and so on. What would that kind of life make of us? I would be lying if I say my life had always been interesting. It isn't. Like you, I live a life as flat as a piece of slate. But there are fascinating intervals, like cracks on a smooth surface. It is during these intervals that I say to myself, "How sweet it is to live." Dull and ordinary life is lethal for me. But I know I have a responsibility and an option to change that. I cannot simply switch to t...