I

The sea was alive with silver slivers of abstractions

Floating mindlessly

Restrained minimally

Cascading aimlessly

And a lone vessel vacillating in the midst of it all

 

The moment of creation is as precious as the life coming into form from it. A tip of a pen can glide into whole worlds hidden away between time and space, occupying the exact matter that the narrative should amuse. Yet there is a certain burden that comes with the power of creation. We handcraft glimmering worlds for societies set in stone and surrender bits of private paradises residing in our being. Our flesh and bones may prevail, but can we say the same to our psyche? Are we not at wits end more often than not? Should this be a state we excuse due to the path that we choose to pursue?

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Many of our defining moments as reckless yet intelligent beings hang on the searing white pain of growth. We bloom in spite of the mistakes of our predecessors and the angst plaguing our youths. We conquer legions of dubiety while acknowledging the everlasting battle scars. Continuing this journey is not a minute task in an existence where voices are silenced with the swiftness of the pill at the end of a barrel. Even so, our spirits shall carry on.

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Our journey began with tear-stricken recitals in the rooms we grew out of. We devoured tales of yore, folklores, and spiels of our people through thin destructible books. Priceless, yet fleeting. They whisper unbearable promises of a universe much more sustainable than ours, for it includes a definitive beginning and end. Meanwhile, the canon lives on. A tale weaved through the untold actuality. 

 

 

II

Through any vantage point

It was barely a craft

Suspended in limbo

It was adrift

Desperately faring the waves

 

There is this thirst that itches beyond any comparable ache. We consume libraries of knowledge interspersed between verbal dictations of how to function favorably. Becoming more of the society we were born in, more of the tongue we converse in, more of what they deem us should be. Our minds are nourished with bullet points imbued with wisdom older than time. It is common to be told we are the treasures of the nation. That we shall glimmer for all to gaze upon in the future. Maybe this is why they are so adamant about wrapping us under duress. For who would ogle on half-made diamonds?

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One wonders arbitrarily if any of this is possible at all. It would seem statistically outrageous that as a generation, all would be well. Just like the characters in pages long gone, some of us are destined to meet an unlikely foe, defend ourselves, and get swept in the throes of the stampede toward a better future. As we reach the skies above and stray from stable grounds, we spiral upwards to the world they say is full of adventure. Just like in those books we idolized. Utopia, here we come. Maybe there is such a land. Where the act of creating is met with overwhelming acceptance and gratifying responses. Perhaps over that mountain or under that sea.

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The pen that glided smoothly before is now void of ink. We wonder if our all-consuming nature consumed us in turn. There is no promised land, nor a world where we are completely safe. We kept on climbing the towering expectations thrust upon us and made friends with the twinkling stars upstairs. On that particular day when life is nearing impossible to bear, we see our reflections staring from below the surface. Bewildered. 

 

III

They set sail with hope

Hoisting a plethora of expectations

The waves got to them first and foremost

Puncturing their hulls and sinking the craft

They paddled to shore with gratitude for the lives not lost

 

Our journey continues with this constant need to explore. Reaching for a kind of divine truth to make sense of all the pain and suffering we all went through to reach this moment in time. There is a constant whisper being carried by the breeze. Rustling tales of great triumph, exceptional escapades, and warm tenderness. We in turn murmur miniscule near truth on what we like, how we act, and when we should stop. Slowly but surely, reality is warped, and fantasy becomes genuine. Believing that this reality is the best we can do. That the privilege trusted to us is an asset. This clarity of knowing what we desire is a blessing. Never will it occur to us that this may encompass the curse of those who dare construct abstracts into beings. A warning to those who venture to alter the lyrics permeating society’s consciousness. We are simply elated to create.

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The truth lies within us and for as long as we live. Our principle is the way we put our confidence in. We strive to deliver the most authentic version of our formulation. We shall burn, get burnt, and turn to ashes. Yet we shall shout our gospel until this vessel’s last breath. For all those arrows of disdain inked our parchment with the blood of the desperate mastermind. The uncertainties that imbued our conscience today are a sign we lived and breathed for the existence of our scattered minds immortalized in inscriptions of all manners. 

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We may as well be a footnote in the history of our people, but we will be there in print. For as long as we agree to put ourselves out there, we shall live forever in between the pages. Conquering the world, one text impression at a time. Perpetually existing on this plane to be discovered by other similar spirits, looking for validation and comfort like us in days gone past.