Self portrait

Maybe it was the fear of dying young, losing all the possibilities of everything that defines one’s true self; and in the process something had been kept dormant erupted. If it’d caused any hurt or damages, it’s too late to apologize and one does not regret it. Best thing to do is to let it run its course and eventually, one hopes, it will be solidified into dust.

Nothing useful or wise could ever be said about one’s foolishness. Isn’t it enough that there is breath in and out of oneself? Isn’t it enough that one is walking on one’s own free will? Isn’t it suffice to wade through life, hike up one’s skirt or just let it fall and be wet and cold, all the while watching others slip and fall? Honesty makes one vulnerable; but one is not weak.

Why did the Joseph Mallord William Turner's painting can be so bright and warm at first glance; but when you stop and stare, it seems so lonely? How does one live in the house made of dawn but one’s feeling linger in the depth of hell? Why would one weep for others but couldn’t shed tears when the tragedy strikes oneself? Why do one loath one’s own image but is delighted to see the faces of one’s children? How could one pine for something belongs to someone else yet is reluctant to accept the possibility of denial? Why is the wakening happened when one has crossed the threshold of adolescent and youth and why is the longing never ceased?

One contemplates cutting off one chamber of one’s heart because it’s hurting too much and it’s festering with useless yearning. While the throbbing of pain grappled one so fiercely, one looks at it with fascination. Could one ever forget? Is it possible to forgive and ask for forgiveness – and truly be at ease with one’s transgression? Can it be that one has the answer all this time; one just chose to ignore it? One is confusing enough, one does not need two.

I planted a garden

An attempt at verses


I planted a garden to get closer to dirt
And dust to bury my delusional roots of
The vegetables I intend to harvest the fruits
Of my own labor

I planted a garden to be near the worms
Who swarm in and out of the dirt and
Leave their shit to fertilize the vegetables
Which I intend to make dinner out of

I planted a garden to pretend that I understand
There is an effort in the living plants to strengthen
And nourish other living beings even though
The dirt is voluptuous and yielding by itself

I planted a garden to see how much weeds
I can grow with the assistance of
My own intellectual power and
The constant longing for vegetables

Dear Oliver

(A short story inspired by OneRepublic's Apologize and All This Time)


Dear Oliver:

Only 14 months old, your life has been more difficult than most adults although your tiny face does not show it. They told me that you can’t hear. And I wonder if it’s because you don’t want to for you’ve seen so much sadness and there is no need to hear more noises. They told me that you don’t eat well. And I wonder if it’s because you are exhausted from all the wretchedness surrounding you that you have no energy to take in any nutrients. They told me that you can’t walk. And I wonder if it’s because you don’t wish to be out in the sun or in the mud. They told me that you need a new home. And I wonder if it’s because you are expecting an apology.

Your big blue eyes look at me quizzically. Do you doubt me, sweet Oliver, if I will keep you? They told me you were born in the prison where your mother is. They told me that the two people brought you into this world met in the prison; each is serving their sentences for the wrongs they've done to the society. Is that why you know, from the beginning, that your innocence cannot make up for the sideways glances and the tsk-tsk sound others make when they heard about your beginning? You are restless in my arms and I wonder if it’s because you are testing my strength. Are you afraid that I would drop you too?

I put your head close to my face and smell you deliberately. I am not a superstitious woman but I want to make sure that you are not sharing the same fate as Grenouille. And you smell of the baby shampoo which I bathed you with; of baby sweat and the mild laundry detergent I used for washing your clothes. You smell…just right. I pulled you back and looked at your face; touched your nose with my index finger and smiled a smile that I hope you perceived as pleasure and warmth. You didn’t smile back and I wonder if it’s because you are waiting for the right moment. The moment when you think others have done their judging and gawking. The moment when you think you can belong to someone or someplace.  The moment when we both can love freely and without fear.  The moment when I can call you mine and me yours.  


Are you young enough to forget the first 14 months of your life?  Am I brave enough to think that my affection and devotion can make you whole?  I put you close to my breast, you turn your face. I wonder if it's because you don't understand what I am offering. I wonder if it's because you don't know what a mother is.  Would you be my angel, Oliver?  Would you stay with this woman who is dusty and weary from walking this life with heartaches and doubts?  Would you drink from my cup so you will taste my blood?  Would you eat from my palm then you will see that my heart has no shape?


Would you take a chance with me, Oliver?  Is that a "yes" when your tiny hands grasp mine and you pull yourself up standing? Is that a "yes" when you swallow the concoction I made from fruit purees and rice? Is that a "yes" when you are held by someone else but your eyes darting around searching, searching for me?  It is not too late, is it, Oliver? We do have a chance together.  And one day, one day, Oliver, you will have your apologies in the purest form from the people hurt you the most.  And I will be there holding your hand.


Your mommy for now and eternity.