Love: One Thing that Doesn't Fit Me

“I love you.”
Is it a falsifiable claim?
How many times have you said that in your life? Or have you not said it at all?

It’s like a morning cup of coffee, love is what it is.
It’s like drowning into the deep ocean. A breeze carrying winter snow. Encompassing the Universe at a blink of an eye. You feel as light as a cotton ball and suddenly, your shoulders sink into the darkest of all.
Have you not experienced that? Have you surely not? Tell me now.

You say love makes you move and eat and drink and learn and live and laugh.
Well.. it might or might not be there, still we talk about it , don’t we?… we talk about it, so dearly, and so lusciously.
The more we talk about it, the more it transcends, and in the end, we could no longer go back to where we started. We get lost. We get lost no matter what.

I want to recognize how it all started, simply for the sake of recognizing. Before I can falsify its shape and form and physicality, I need an empirical proof, in any case, an experiment of my own. Or your own. Or our own.

I just want you to know that love has all sorts of ephemeral qualities, whether you like it or not.
I want you to refute its many facets hidden under that well-rounded disguise.
I want you to come forward and be able to talk about it when we talk about it.
I want you to distinguish it not as a social norm or a labeling but as a thing which we talk over and over again that it becomes a social norm or a labeling.
I want you to embrace it as it is, whatever it is, or isn’t.
I want you to love nothing else but love only.

Because I love you.

And I talk about love.
What do I talk about when I talk about love?
What do we talk about when we talk about love?

It won’t matter, we get lost anyway.

Attestation

..

.Being afloat, I sense nothing, no more or no less, just the dark energy closing all in.
I am slow, the Universe is slow.. I am less expansive now than ever..
How much of me is dark energy?
How long have I been floating?

I dreamt of you last night. It was a real dream.. Yes, it was… I certainly recognized it as a real one since I’ve kept so many of those in a box under my bed…
In the dream, you and I were watching the sky. Suddenly, you sobbed and said.
“How about afterlife? Is there or isn’t there one?”
I answered, “What about it?.... We will never be there anyway.”

we'll never be there anyway..we’ll never be there anyway…we’ll never be there anyway…
It echoed through my body.. I trembled and woke up, and it’s 3:06 am.

I am not Aristotle. I am not Descartes. Neither Locke nor Kant. I am not Hegel. I am not Kierkegaard. Neither Nietzsche, nor Russell.
Hence, I can’t be metaphysical.
But I live.

I live therefore I weep.
On countless nights, I merely gaze at the sky and weep because I feel alone. Living is such a lonely realm. As much as we share within us, I am still alone, my love…. I am so on my own.

We sing. We dance. We love. We hate. We eat. We drink. We kiss. We hurt. We give. We take. We pray. We cry. We stop. We continue.

Amazingly, it all started with an extremely concentrated and unstable energy.
Now here we are.. you and I, trees and the oceans, pyramids and empires, constructions and destructions, art and music, philosophy and religions, breeders and killers, money and technology, cubicles and depressants, KKK and www.

…and still, we are all on our own..

Don’t you feel that we are being pulled towards the black hole?
After which, I am no more… you are no more…
we are no more.
Till then, let’s float one more time…Let’s gather in the dream one more time.
Carelessly and heartily.
..
..
..
My love, I want to stand with you before the first 3 minutes of us, this Universe. I want to meet and greet you before it went all crazy.

Perhaps, perhaps, you would still remember me then???

..
..
..

My First Ballet: Love Poem: A Suicidal Note

I love you

I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you

I love you

I love

You

I

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o

v

e

y

o

u

Betrayal

.

Aging knocks around the imbalance of my living room—

disassociation, a used couch, a worn-out blanket,

static on an old TV, a couple of paintings,

repeated defeats, lack of the whole thing.

Love is the last drop of wine remained in that dirty cup;

Still more, you make me weep.

On a Saturday morning,

Or a Tuesday’s or a Monday’s,

doesn’t matter! doesn’t matter!

Weeping hurts; it pains the whole process. Not that

I am weak or strong, not that you have

a permanent tattoo on your psychological self.

The outings, where can we meet? At the

front porch? On the swing? Near the

lovely lake? Your choice. I would listen.

But again, outings are not

outings without a damage.

Outings are merely where we nibble love and talk

nonsense, and pine for Tibet and Kyoto and Irrawaddy.

Senescence knocks me dead. You wither

like a summer flower, so does the last

song we sang together.

Your voice echoes:" Plants teach us how to live

….O Plants teach us how to live!"

disposable good sense of yours

has told me so.

-->

Alas,

I get mutated inside out. Alone

in my living room. Just next,

next to that old,

static TV of

yours.

“4:14 am”

At the dawn, the night

meets yet another

soaring soul

I long for Rangoon

there lies a thousand birds which

can take me places—

bridges of the past.

.

.

.

.

Hands

       

I am not scared..

But I’m afraid…

This morning when I looked at my own hands, I couldn’t believe that they’re gone..

years of nurturing them… years of showcasing them… years of abandoning them…

They didn’t even bother to say goodbye.. just slipped away like strangers after one encounter..

…but, wait… now that I remember, my memory is on again all of a sudden..

it’s me who chopped them off!!

But don’t you worry; there will be new breed blossoming before long…

Spring is on my doorway…

It’s time…

Time for a pair of newly fresh hands out of this bamboo plant I’ve been staring at the whole morning….

..yes, they are.

….Arriving soon…

A Decade of Its Own

..

If time and space are correlated, I have just passed another decade, a systematic framing we use to structure our sense and experience.

I am not old, nor young, I am not here, nor there, I am not passing, nor passed by.
It's just happening and non-happening..

The sunset outside my window has the same face, it's just me who is not used to it..
.... It's just me who has never been used to it..

..