(n) a low rumble of distant thunder
pronunciation: ‘bron-tld (brawn-tide)
—I am the thunder. And these are my brontides.
Out of my ware, every single day, I keep falling for this man—someone whose heart belongs to someone else—someone who I shouldn’t grasp the notion of being with. He’s gentle, so sweet and a man of chivalry. No one can purposely ignore that. In this universe of parading one’s self, he’s a man of humility. I, with my utmost power, tried my very best to ignore the heartbeats but, I, I failed. And I, I fell.
Yours is the face
That light up my days
It showed me the way
It blew me away
Away from my fears
And all of my tears
Far from despair
And what I can’t bear
Closer to Your care
And when it’s time; you must learn to let go of something you’re afraid to lose.
She found the entry point to the labyrinth of trouble when he smiled.
I was told to never look at the eyes, cause those were oblivion waiting for one’s downfall. “You’ve got entrancing hazel brown eyes there.” I uttered.
My pen inked the sheet as my hand started strumming the strings.
Dear, the picturesque sight of your smile’s making me sing.
They said soulmates have resemblance with each other as for the notion that they were angels above fighting the never ending battle. Lost from the war, they were separated into two beings—blindly searching for the other half in their lifetimes. And apparently you’ve lost the battle.
The question is; would you find the other half? Before the world be consumed by sin and hatred?
“How have you been?”
Here, still riding the roller coaster of confusion that I have never paid myself to be into.
“Oh, been doing good.”
Some people keep searching for that certain kind of love in this world, a love that can only be found on the cross.
Happiness isn’t about measuring the sadness of infinite galaxy to prove itself.
How would you say that you feel so empty without making people act as if you’re the saddest piece here on earth?
What it is that you will do, when the entire world need saving but no one notice you need it too?
Who are you when you are not wearing that facade, the mask that the world requires you to wear every single day?
And when home doesn’t feel like home, where would you go?
“Is my life another sad story?”
There were moments in my life where I let liquefied emotions, lukewarm faith, easily burned thoughts, lightheartedness and trifling decisions ruled over. Those moments were too easy to label as everything that made me stand on the ground of this present world I am in. All the broken and irreparable pieces of what I was before could be gathered to solidify my today’s being. I don’t want to be eaten by pretense, so here’s the truth; there were moments, minutes, hours, even a fleeting second, I would feel the need to be lost. I was craving for the satisfaction to end everything that keeps on gripping my heart in such agonizing way. I would crave the need to feel numb, un-weary of the howls and cries that could be heard in the midst of a busy street and looking forward to the sound of silence in the core of oblivion and solitude. I would gratifyingly feel the need to be a lonely land, full of mysteries and quietness, full of withered flowers and brown thin branch of trees, health which the drought took. I would feel the need to be in the darkness, letting it all surmount my space, until I could no longer breathe, until it travel its way to every part of me, to my entirety. Even up to now; some days, I would feel the need to stop fighting, to just give up and to just let go. I would look in front of me and see how everyone’s doing fine and I am here, still behind, doing well at watching others retreat to their happiness while I am still stuck with my frowns and tears. I was once a flower, expected to jubilantly bloom under the brightly shining sun. How could I? When I was long too withered? Because the society’s says were my constant reminders that I am nothing but a failed experiment to this mutation.
Then, every time that certain need would eagerly want to overpower me, a Man would call with softness in His voice. That’s where the light came in; that was the exact moment where I would feel solid, like an indestructible piece of gem that was hardened by Him. Yet, I answered Him with doubts, and still answering Him with doubts. I thought He would leave. Just like what a lot of people did but He stayed, He stays. As for my heart keep searching restlessly, and the resonating sound of nothingness zealously ignite the desire of wanting to stop, He would gladly hold my hands and would whisper through my ears; “Do not be afraid.” Such words started touching my heart. “Be still.” He would add. “I love you.” And with those uttered words, my being would travel to the age of calmness—where there’s nothing but rest.
He is the rest.
And your gaze fell to the wall.
A wall where you used to write your sanity, and so was the otherwise. From 3am thoughts to 11:11 wishes; from agony to howling; from ephemeral picturesque daydream to the realistic side of everything; from the imbalance system of this world to its dysfuntional-ity. Every surface was inked by the pen—doodled out names of those who left and stayed; written songs stuck on hiatus; blabbering from various beings you once gave surreptitious parts of you; every place and every memoir of people; your late night cries; your giving up nights; your wounds; those scars. Then one day, you just woke up—on the other side of the room, there was an image of Him, patiently waiting to be seen, wanting to be an add up to your masterpiece. But you never did, ’cause you were too busy wondering: painting the other wall with sadness. Wandering: seeking for your worth in wrong places. Now, looking at the galaxy of thoughts you have created, realizing it was no longer exquisite. A sanctuary, now devastated by inkblots and misalignment. You found yourself, standing in front of that wall—a wall where you used to write everything—with a paint brush within your grasp and new set of paints beside you.
Leaving the wall.
i used to love coffee
the way I love writing
but i grew tired,
not the sleep-deprived notion,
not the writer’s-block kind,
it was something
i was fatigued,
whacked by this existence,
the coffee of grief
was running in the interior
of my delicate veins,
the rose-colored life
became dark words
written in blue
i was at the
when He saw me,
i, i was
tainted by dirt;
painted by sorrow;
kissed by shame;
embraced by misery
never at my best
—constantly at worst
“and I still love(d) you”
He gently said
out of my reverie
with the cup of
creamy coffee on the table,
a pen within my grasp,
He is the only One worth writing about.
They say that a rough man don’t cry, as if crying is an incurable disease that can never be cured once detected. Men don’t belong in the vulnerable sector—they can handle themselves, they are the heavy-duty ones, those who can cross the road without any fear of being hit even by the fastest car, those who can jump to the depths of scary black hole without any fear of letting crimson liquid touch the floor, those who can move fast without being tired, those who can swim in the ocean of despair for the people they love, those who didn’t bother themselves to look at the weakest point of this so called life.
The first time I saw my father cry was when his hero died. My Lolo used to be his shield, his rainbow, his savior, his true love, his king—his Achilles heel. The day God opened his arms, tightly embracing my Lolo, he was raging mad. He was howling his voice out to the moon to ask where he went wrong. Why did He take his angel away?
As the first tear fell from his eye, I saw how tough he was.
The second time I saw my father weep was when they fell out of love. My mother was and is his Queen—but at some point of a man’s life, he tried to wander. Tempted by the enflaming fire of his heart’s desire, he gradually opened his being to the world of lost innocence and lures. He hugged the devilish side of this world and un-kissed the beauty of an angelic girl given by God. No, I was wrong when I said they fell out of love—he was just once lost and by saying “Sorry.”, and hearing “I forgive you.” back, he was found.
As the second tear fell from his eye—I built the walls up to the skies, as the resentment took over my heart—I, I didn’t feel anything.
The third time I saw my father shed a tear was when I turned my back on toys and started wearing the big girl shoe. I never saw myself as his princess. I never saw myself as someone who will hear “I’m so proud of you.” He was the authoritative one. He was the final say. He was the huge wall that you just can’t simply bump yourself into. He was the cold one, the stone. So, I made up a barrier where only laughs and smiles can be passed to the other side, but weeping and sadness cannot be seen or felt by his being—he whose blood’s running on mine; he whose heart was used to build mine; he whose being was just an ordinary being for me. But that special day, I took down the upper part of my walls and he kissed me on my forehead; without any words need to be uttered I felt the warmness of being protected.
As the third tear fell from his eye while uttering the words for me, in frontage of crowd, I saw how loved I was.
And tonight, for the fourth time, I saw my father withdraw a doleful wail when he said; “I’m tired.” He got home, drunk and not ware, not in his usual knack. He was peacefully lying on his bed while articulating words that long filled his heart; “I’m getting tired too, I’m getting really tired.” with his voice slowly breaking, his eyes producing the water of grief that have convinced me that he belongs to the vulnerable zone too—with his words trying to get out, bit by bit, all the broken pieces of his demolished wall was in front of my feet.
As the fourth tear fell from his eye, to impossible quantity of pieces, it broke my heart.
Maybe the beer didn’t lessen his strength. No, it didn’t.
“Do you love me more than these?” each of them asked.
And without any doubt you answered, “Yes”, full of conviction and assurance to give your all—and so you did.
You offered them the moon with the glistening dust in the vastly night skies. They became your poem, your prose and every word in your vocabulary. You sing them to sleep even when your throat can’t function well anymore; you endlessly played the guitar even when your hands were already full of blisters due to too much use of it. Every good morning text and wake up call, every good night sigh and write-up song, every blissful hi and ecstatic let’s-go-out, everything… everything was devoted and only for them.
You gave too much, and that’s the entry point for hollowness.
You found yourself, in the midst of nowhere—alone and finding no comfort in solitude—enduring the heat of the sun on your bare skin, the roughness of the road on your bare feet, tasting the salty water of grief coming from your beautiful eyes—covered up with your smudge mascara—and barely breathing, walking with no direction at all.
“Do you love me more than these?” each of them asked, for the nth time.
And without any doubt you answered, “Yes”.
You answered “Yes”, the “yes” felt like the last coin in your pocket, the last piece of pizza in the box, the last strawberry flavored cake in the counter, the last butternut—the last breathe of serenity; the last hope you have; the last sigh of relief and the last smile your face could display.
“Do you love me more than these?” It was your turn to ask.
But you heard nothing. You heard nothing but the sound of footsteps intending to walk away from you. You were standing in the core of darkness with not a single soul to stand beside you. The entire yes’s you gave led you to all the no’s this world could offer.
“Do you love Me more than these?” Someone asked. The voice was different from the others, so soothing and so calm. But the familiarity of it faded, as for the last time you heard the question, emptiness found you.
It hit you. “These” sounds massive, big and wholly, as if it would take your life, the totality of what makes you, all your possessions, all that you could breathe and all that you could give—all your all.
You have decided to be selfish. You have decided to give none. You chose to stay silent despite of the question haunting you every minute.
“Do you love Me more than these?”
“Do you love Me more than these?”
“Do you love Me more than these?”
The statement was answerable by “yes” or “no” but it was like a lump in your throat—to answer is to break you.
“Do you love Me more than these?” The voice asked, over and over again.
Until, “Tell me, how? How to give when I have none? How to love when my heart is no longer functioning the way it that should? I have nothing but this hollowness inside my chest, this darkness in my soul, this heart that is broken and this soul that is aching to surrender what’s left. How? How can I say yes when I have nothing but no? How can I love when I have nothing at all?” You blasted out as your knees touched the ground, with your hands covering your face that was full of tears.
He stared at you for an ephemeral moment, until a smile find its way to His face.
“Do you love Me more than these?”
“…more than these—these heartbreaks, mundaneness, this pain, this agony and these tears. Do you love Me more than these—these resources, these approvals, these school works, and this wealth? Do you love Me more than the “yes” from others, the moon and the stars the world had already gave you. Do you love Me more than these—all these, everything that’s keeping you from seeing me, from loving me?”
“…because I love you beyond these.”
That was when your heart started aching. How could someone possibly break a heart with such gentleness? How could someone possibly light the whole town with such words? How could someone possibly give hope to the hopeless, how could He possibly replace strength to one’s weakness?
“Do you love Me more than these?” He asked. And there was no other way to count on your fingers how many times.
You have never seen a love so faithful—adhering firmly to one’s soul, a love so selfless, a love that endures—until you saw yourself, standing before the cross, blood dripping from the wounds of a Man, and the hammer within your grasp. You have nailed Him but He was still smiling, praying for you, waiting for you to hold his hand again, and loving you with all His will and heart. He is a victor over sin and death; He came from the grave to the sky in pursuance of you.
That was a love; a love that is so worthy of every “yes”.
“Yes.” You finally responded, full of conviction and assurance to give your all—and so you did, this time for the right person for all the right reasons.
“I love you, beyond measure.” God retorted back.