Only the Pure
She would have heaven come down. Beneath a midnoon moon, the colorant fade into several burst of fragrances, pulling her closer to verandas of violets and cherry and the many luminous things that made living beautiful. Marionette, she was called. Marion to her friends. And a name her lover only speaks that fragments her heart, then make it whole again. His voice, everywhere: the garden, the rustling foliage, the dimming streetlamp across; echoing, playing with her sanity--- overflowing of things to be spoken, yet to be uttered between breaths and whispers and God’s silence.
“This is impossible,” she would say.
“What is?” asked the voice in her head.
“The preoccupation with living.”
“Only the pure, Dearest.”
Her soul, softly, nakedly flowed through halls made warm by the dying firelight, unliving the follies that clung to her like thistles. “Oh, the walks. I remember!” Fragrant hillsides during rainy mornings; light rain, filtering the dying sunlight of summer. So pure and clean. Tabula Rasa, she recalled softly. I will be pure.
And she would fall softly, on pillows of white clouds, dreaming of Youth chasing barefooted on the low grass, laughing and smiling at Fate that cares not for the Price of Living. Nestled, protected from the cares of the world, she would allow to make herself escape the unbearable lightness of her whole being, forgetting class, divisions, caste, economy, politics and all that useless trifles which formed the axis of civility. “How idiotic!” she would exclaim like Bertha Young, and laugh like her, recalling emotions she desperately hold on to in that instantaneous slice of what she would call now: absolute rationality.
“How could the world come to this?” she would ask.
“Because you are pure,” replied not the voice, but his.
“I’m naïve,” she would declare.
“So few can see.”
I had a dream, and it was blown to ashes by the searing winds of delusion that ruled most our lives.
But seeing you smiling and contented, I often wonder, often at night when I am alone looking at you, resting peaceful, how mankind lived through their lives without a memory of pure things.
Tomorrow, she woke up. And things were as they were.
“This is impossible,” she would say.
“What is?” asked the voice in her head.
“The preoccupation with living.”
“Only the pure, Dearest.”
Her soul, softly, nakedly flowed through halls made warm by the dying firelight, unliving the follies that clung to her like thistles. “Oh, the walks. I remember!” Fragrant hillsides during rainy mornings; light rain, filtering the dying sunlight of summer. So pure and clean. Tabula Rasa, she recalled softly. I will be pure.
And she would fall softly, on pillows of white clouds, dreaming of Youth chasing barefooted on the low grass, laughing and smiling at Fate that cares not for the Price of Living. Nestled, protected from the cares of the world, she would allow to make herself escape the unbearable lightness of her whole being, forgetting class, divisions, caste, economy, politics and all that useless trifles which formed the axis of civility. “How idiotic!” she would exclaim like Bertha Young, and laugh like her, recalling emotions she desperately hold on to in that instantaneous slice of what she would call now: absolute rationality.
“How could the world come to this?” she would ask.
“Because you are pure,” replied not the voice, but his.
“I’m naïve,” she would declare.
“So few can see.”
I had a dream, and it was blown to ashes by the searing winds of delusion that ruled most our lives.
But seeing you smiling and contented, I often wonder, often at night when I am alone looking at you, resting peaceful, how mankind lived through their lives without a memory of pure things.
Tomorrow, she woke up. And things were as they were.
2 comments:
kuya sherlockkk, andito naman pala mga gawa mo hehhe..
buti na lang at tumalon talon ng sunod sunod sa mga blogs..
-Aeon
Hello Aeon, welcome to my humble abode, ika nga =)
Please wag mo lang kakatayin ha hahaha, they are more like journals than works of art.
Enjoy!
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