everything’s random. . .

On this coldest of january nights

We drive out past the runway and watch the planes go flying by

The runway lights are the deepest blue like the colors of your eyes

So close them tight and kiss me one last time

If you could go anywhere right now

Where would you go? 

And would you miss me when you get there? 

No place that I would rather be.

Please don’t let me go falling from the sky

The "fasten seatbelt" sign just needs to go out

If only you could be right here by my side

Home wouldn’t seem so far from here

Passport, customs, carry on, remember

To shut off all of your electronic devices

Fell asleep on tuesday woke up monday afternoon

I slept right through your international date line.

A boy was watching his grandmother write a letter.  At one point, he asked:

“Are you writing a story about what we’ve done?  Is it a story about me?”

His grandmother stopped writing her letter and said to her grandson:

“I am writing about you, actually, but more important than the words is the pencil I’m using.  I hope you will be like this pencil when you grow up.”

Intrigued, the boy looked at the pencil.  It didn’t seem very special.

“But it’s just like any other pencil I’ve ever seen!”

“That depends on how you look at things.  It has five qualities which, if you manage to hang on to them, will make you a person who is always at peace with the world.

“First quality: you are capable of great things, but you must never forget that there is a hand guiding your steps.  We call that hand God, and He always guides us according to His will.

“Second quality: now and then, I have to stop writing and use a sharpener.  that make the pencil suffer a little, but afterwards, he’s much sharper.  So you, too, must learn to bear certain pains and sorrows, because they will make you a better person.

“Third quality: the pencil always allows us to use an eraser to rub out any mistakes.  This means that correcting something we did is not necessarily a bad thing; it helps to keep us on the road to justice.

“Fouth quality: what really matters in a pencil is not its wooden exterior, but the graphite inside.  So always pay attention to what is happening inside you.

“Finally, the pencil’s fifth quality: it always leaves a mark.  In just the same way, you should know that every thing you do in life will leave a mark, so try to be conscious of that in your every action.”

Cassan Said Amer tells the story of a lecturer who began a seminar by holding up a twenty-dollar bill and asking: "Who would like this twenty-dollar bill?"

Several hands went up, but the lecturer said: "Before I give it to you, I have to do something."

He screwed it up into a ball and said: "Who still wants this bill?"

The hands went up again.

"And what if I do this to it?"

He threw the crumpled bill at the wall, dropped it on the floor, insulted it, trampled on ti, and once more showed them the bill-now all creased and dirty.  He repeated the question, and the hands stayed up.

"Never forget this scene," he said.  "It doesn’t matter what I do to this money.  It is still a twenty-dollar bill.  So often in our live, we are crumpled, trampled, ill-treated, insulted, and yet, despite all that, we are still worth the same."

To whom? To what point and extent are you the boss of me? We really should set limits for everything…then again these "set of limits", stop and think…maybe these laws are the boss of us. All these dos and don’ts are very annoying at times but we tend to follow them for the simple reason that it is the law…and breaking the law is against authority. forget the people that creates them, it’s like it has evolved into something fearful and keeps us everything in place…chaos is being supressed. I could not believe that a rule agreed by people itself and then printed in a plain paper is the only one holding us back from returning the beast that we ones were (figuratively speaking…then again, we have out own "figures" of speech.)

Flaws…there are flaws. Every law…every rule that is made, hey, people made it…of course there are holes. Solution: cover up the hole. From a plain piece of paper that was once a single piece of paper, it was then again piled up by another piece of paper…tiresome as it seems, and yes we are now very tired of reading it…the constitution, the laws of this and that…god! never ending flaws.

Bottom line…authority keeps our morals…it’s like being tied with a very long piece of rope, yet they call you a free man. weird…very weird.

It’s all blank…although you really…badly want something out but then you can’t. It’s all blank. Too many things that I want to do or type or read but just can’t happen to let it all out. Maybe I’m not fit for the job…thinking. Then I stop. Can’t seem to calm the traffic, you go for a smoke then It’s going to be all blank again. From the moment you light the tip of the cigarette taking all your effort to breathe. Delete. No…that’s not I’m going to say either. I’m just typing random here, trying to pick up the thoughts, thinking that I might have something useful. Delete. Stop. Read. Review…this thing here is going no where, I could go on typing thinking about something but can’t seem to put something that’s why it would be called blank…why not random or whatever. It’s all blank because the moment you think of something too deeply, you’ll have to stop. Because it doesn’t have any point of moving on if you’re just doing something for the sake of doing something…blank. and boring. Read. Stop. Post.

Things just got way out of hand.  And no, not drunk at all…just had a drink the normal rhum as usual…the cheap one.  He really did not know, just got out of hand.  Then he had to call, the same call over and over and over since August. Long hours past, goodbyes, kisses, and hugs, went flying away like bats on a 3 am flight to Mars. Smoke like he always did…zzz. Woke up. Then it got out of hand.  Toxic spreads like disease, and no, he’s not drunk at all…not at all. Something’s not right, then he let it out. puking out to death. puke like he’s pulling his guts out. Still something’s not right. Blood…all over his shirt, coffee spills…and blood as if mixing a cocktail. Sight’s fainting, what’s happening? Something’s not really right, and no he’s not drunk at all. He had to fall…never to wake up, not even coffee can wake him up now. It’s okay, it’s all over now…tears will follow soon. (my eulogy to Rodolfo Lui)