The Road goes on and on

At the end I will meet you
on the silver road.
I will see you clad in white
moving on
on
on.

Over tea and biscuits will
the Sun shine unawares.
Such oblivion to light
and ignorance to
dark.

It will never matter again
as the Road winds on and on.
I will wait for you
always
with taut fingers,
darkened claws.

-----------------------------

It means not that I have gone,

Or come at the very least.

How lovely the times have passed,

So fattened with its feast.

Will moonshine sustain us ever on?

In her eye I glimpsed

a wounded memory.

It lives on now

as corrupted legacy.

At last the star shines upon Eden, upon all.

Looking Up

As a child, I always believed the sky to be a sacred little realm where the Faerie-people often had seed-cakes and pudding to satisfy the hunger pangs that provoked their stomachs. Sometimes they dined under the stars, with the moon to guide their evening serenades; and sometimes at the crack of dawn, sewing cobwebs along the seams for tablecloths. They drank sunshine for tea and sculpted the most elegant tables out of clouds and various mists. Silence itself was their music, and it would be sacrilege to deny this common assumption.

Yet, science intruded this childhood fantasy, and soon crooked-nosed tutors tapped their "wands" sharply against whiteboards, instructing us to understand astronomy and the water cycle under microscopic attention. They expected us to be riveted by condensation and steam and bore into our minds the countless constellations that I still cannot thoroughly recollect. I enjoyed learning things through a disparate perspective, but I couldn't relieve myself of the world I worshiped as a child. Time never took its toll when it came to common sense.

I ask you; where have the innocent days gone?

Just a thought...

She paused, and time paused with her. There is nothing to be said, unless you know what you are saying.

            How would you know? How can you live a life that is not a gift, but rather a fate - a wound that could not be healed?

            Furtively, she advanced her gaze towards the tangible shadow, where a barrier drew light from dark. The sinuous arms of a grandfather clock began its daily revolution.

            The bell struck twelve. Midnight.

            Tick! A mother’s countenance shivers into view, and screams reverberate throughout the chapel. Upon the threshold of immortality, crimson blossoms into a vivid memory.

            Tick! A scarlet rose. Never had she believed there to be another. Playing a demure smile, the woman scampers away.

            Tick! In the dingy London streets, a russet hearse trudges sluggishly along. Trailing unobtrusively, the translucent menace pursues its victim.

            Tick!

            Tick!

            Tick!

            She opened her eyes to be welcomed by another smile and another flash of vivacious red. Behind her, time paused, but she did not dare to stop with it.

            The dark shadow plunged sluggishly toward the snow, playing its elusive figure once more.

            She closed her one window to the world, and her resounding sigh snaked through the strands of her sedate hair before sinking to a broken void.

            I accept.

--------------------

Hope you enjoy! The tense switch was done on purpose; I'm only stating this to avoid any confusion.

Ah, I'm heading towards the art store soon. That's a prospect to look forward to, I suppose.

Dear Death

It is with some concern that I say that I'm feeling tad morbid right now. Oh, the joy of rainy days.

Not that I despise the music of gentle pattering, or am ignorant to the tears of nature. It's just that after being so accustomed to glorious sunshine, a gloomy sky of drab, drab gray can a downer.

Anyway, here is a letter to death that wrote for school. And no, I am not kidding when I say that I actually wrote to death.

And to those who have read my previous post, I may be taking it down because there are details I want to revise in the excerpt. In other words, I am not really compatible with what I had written there.

So to not dull this prosy day even more, here we go...

(Yes Nat, this is a vocab assignment. Week 11 to be exact)

Dear Death,

            Whenever light falls to dark, I perceive a shadow that swoops furtively upon the open prairie. It often appears to be a motif, a reminder of the most beautiful yet daunting story.  Yet, I know that with this eclipse, you ensconce yourself in a dingy hovel, writhing in not your own agony, but our remorse.

            It is said that man leads an incorrigible conscience, and that because of this inevitable streak, we will never live a day in which the vile poison of want and ignorance is extinct. For years, I have stood as sentries by countless individuals and watched them be seduced by greed, speculating the claws that tear their lives apart. But you always elude the enigma that wreathes your very breath at the last precarious moment, and you obliterate their vanity and self-conceit. You are their one salvation.

            Despite this benevolent consideration, you express no ingratiating feelings toward our race; no daring smiles of encouragement or firm assurances of support. Instead, you precipitate sorrow and mock our population in their most wretched and indigent hour. I sometimes question our very existence: are we another one of the Greater Good’s inscrutable mistakes, not a gift, but rather a “result?”

            Perhaps we should not have slipped past the cunning fingers of the one who gave us the chance to breathe, the one who presented us with the ability to dream and think. So many of us let these neglected talismans fly away or inflict them upon others with a dark motive. It is certainly disheartening to be a spectator of intemperate plundering paralleled with stingy alms, and even more so when you realize these souls are linked to you by relentless chains. But you will be there. You will rinse away our muddled colors and replace them with your very own.

            I have often heard that the most insignificant, innocuous endeavors can bring upon the greatest change, though whether or not the reforms strive for a brighter future is still one of Life’s intriguing mysteries. Even though you may not have yet divulged the truth, something unfurls whenever you take a burden in your arms. It is as if the question mark perched upon their shoulders dispels into light, and through their grief, they see a revelation – the rawness of their actions. The feigned insipidness they once expressed to each other crumbles to a formidable unity, as if the lines that divided them are the ones that tie them closer together.

            While we will never wholly exterminate the intractable problems that bring so much turmoil and bloodshed, the conflicts can undoubtedly be mended with time and forgiveness. Because you will be there, healing and destroying the worlds you played a part in creating.

It is with a bittersweet tear, however, that I annunciate I am not indefatigable, for the sigh of fate emanates from every cell and garden I now place my foot in. Perhaps this pronouncement echoes in a rather irrelevant tone with the rest of my salutations, but I thought you would like to know and plan for the upcoming career.

I shall see you tomorrow, if it ever comes.

Sincerely,

Unknown

           

           

                         

Immobility

There is often a secret behind the russet gate -

A glint of gold worth knowing.

Where sinuous vines blight to ashen gray,

A story is still yet growing.

When her eyes first lit upon the evening star,

Charcoal gripped a fallen tear.

The lines that caressed her defeated gaze spoke,

“Death, I am here.”

A butterfly crept along her silver tresses,

Drinking cups of sunshine from the sill.

Shadows fed upon my wary soul,

Bringing sorrow without the pain.

Where youth once scampered with an ignorant laugh,

Age now smiles in vain.

Where vivacious red once seized her hue,

Violet now fades by day.

Behind the visage blackened by fate,

A crimson rose is still a-bloom.

A vibrant leaf of timeless light

Still lives in the heart of you.

'Gone With the Wind'

A bee kisses the shoulder
On days frigid, cold.
As if the world a constricting jar,
He bounds to and fro.

What he calls his own
Is imperceptible, one might say.
Silvery dreams upon the breadth of landing;
Only the narrow minded believe.

No, the sea and sky provoke
A spirit more sincere.
Vexing a stream to blustery torrent,
Or personifying the art of fear.

I examine this little bee
And how he pines for the golden sky;
A destiny fate will never bring,
Lest his deity succumb to science
Or an inferno; heaven shall glean.

Through the grimy panes,
Light pierces listlessly.
The bee, his crumpled wings,
Settles disconcertingly in a beam.

Where do wishes dissipate
And never discombobulate the mind?
Carrying his fragile burden
The bee stumbles solemnly by.

In memory of...

They brought us into a deadly game: Hope.

 Photo by Starr Jiang.

Dance pαrт 1

Beneath Hades' darkest lair,

Above the star unnamed but beloved,

I gleaned of the eve of man,

And wove a castle in the air.

There is a time to conjecture;

A time to collect surmise by surmise.

But in that little castle,

I could only sit thoughtlessly

As my obsolete world flew by. 

Silver-lined butterflies
 -a realm of thought afar-

 Brought consolation to the grate of fear.

They knew nothing of iniquity,

Nor the spell that vaporized my tears.

Though every tattered day,
Dimity of sunshine would appear.
The ghost of  halcyon befell their wings,
As they reigned paragons in the willowwacks.
And from that minute on,
I knew such apparitions could sing.

Their music was not written,
Nor heard or seen.
Rather an impulse amidst the soul,
Like the love that caresses thee.

Sometimes as I walk this earth,
I am welcomed by many a blight.
And thus I elude the silhouettes,
To the fortress in deceiving flight.

But the leaves of intricate nervure
-their backbones a somersault away -
Are a reminiscence to the immortals,
That danced a blustery breeze yesterday.

The gardens may be a delightful dream;
An imperial throne for one only.
Though I do not regret that the butterflies,
Had not mentioned where they were going.

Ships Painted Blue

Blue is the color of peace and belonging, of dreams and other ineffable thoughts. It's the shade of simplicity tarnished with the slightest drop iridescence, like how mussels shimmer with their alluring opalescent sheen.

Once in a while, we forget to give a second chance and imagine happiness as a one stop ticket. We live like there is no tomorrow, slipping the most insignificant errors under careful scrutiny. Meanwhile, life moves on, and we are in oblivion to the gifts it continues to send us.

Lately, during  bi-monthly excursions to the shore, I have noticed flocks of seagulls languishing along the ropes of sand, their eyes searching the sea for something I feel they have lost. Occasionally, I would attempt to wave them away to fly the seven seas, hoping that they will discover what their hearts so desperately want to acquire. But all strategies end in vain, for they return in mid-flight with wary gleams in their eyes, defeated in the midst of their quest.

I see this as a metaphor to human society, how fear prevents us from reaching our utmost dreams. How fear also contaminates others into thinking life is nothing but a facade. Terror can be delusional and in many cases, deadly.

In the mystical peaks of Tibet, there are people who dedicate themselves to the life of Buddha, people who live poverty but cherish it. They claim that they have lost the ability to fear by learning love and compassion, but I feel anyone can overcome it with acceptance. With courage.

If you have been following the UK riots recently, you may have been informed that the unrest  was partially caused by people racked with desperation and anger. Unemployment and deep cuts in welfare payments have made citizens fearful for their future and their country. They were bystanders innocent in all aspects until anxiety drove them to pandemonium and chaos, the only direction they could express themselves because a compromise could not be made with the government. It is unnerving how emotion can sometimes get the better of us and bring a world held in such high esteem to utter turmoil. 

And then there is blue. The color that influenced the sky and sea. On the surface,  the ocean may seem like a veil deceiving us from how things really are. The sky may be an opaque blanket not to be penetrated. Just like fear.

But if one stretches her hand and dips it within, she will know that in one perspective, she is reaching into a realm of emptiness. Into an endless vault of imagination and illusion. Into space seemingly intangible.

"What is fear? Does it really exist?"

What I Am, Who You Are

Am I one of a million?

Or a million of one?
The difference is trivial, they say.

We met once.
By another mundane mistake.
I am an atheist.
Predestination is flawed theology.
Is it?

Questions are overwhelming-
Curious little gentlemen.
Polite and mechanical,
Yet each one so unique.
Like you.
And me?

Through hypothetical reasoning,
I developed the idea.
An innocent trimming, perhaps,
But a coddled one.

We travel by bus at the rise of midnight.
Limber critters anxious for youth-
For something new.

And there it is.
An oasis developed little by little,
Now a tranquil haven.
I don't recognize a soul,
For this is Somewhere Else.

The homage now a memory,
The journey now complete.
I know now of my differentials,
And they belong solely...
...to me?

Another question once more,
Over a daily swift cup of lemon tea.
With you I share it with,
And there they are.

A million of me.

----------------------------

Many wonder the purpose of these muses: what do they imply?

Nothing, perhaps.

But everything, nevertheless.

Summer's Rain

I recently sent this out to my friends, and I find it very entertaining. If you hope to find out a little more about me, this letter may assist you in your search. I like enthralling and quaint objects, such as bubbles, wooden figurines, and handmade whimsies, so this article probably proves it. The text does not expose or exhibit my friends in a negative nor positive direction, so no offense should be mentioned, unless you are finicky and opinionated. 

----------------------------

My dear fellow acquaintance,

It may have come to your mind that summer is coming on the final steps of its gallant march. Soon, it will intrepidly slip away and hibernate until Spring gathers her skirts for time immemorial, a parallel universe where all that is unseen recluse until unveiling calls their name.

From my point of view, it is a little late for a mid-Summer's greeting, for as you may have noticed, July is closing its curtains in just a week. But it is never too late to say 'hello', nor for a "time to talk".

Of course, this message was not meant to be literal in any aspect, as it is just another one of my useless, but nevertheless quaint, novelties. However, my heart does speak truly when it echoed my salutations. "Summer's Rain" is an analogy toward dark and light, or perhaps opposites in general. And, in placing this metaphor, I am honoring the fading summer and welcoming the russet autumn. 

Memories will unite with master as school stealthily creeps into our lives once more. It will be hard to let go of carefree schedules and well-fought freedom as crotchety tutors instruct us into inflexible positions. But I feel summer will never end, as does any other season. They will only come again as reminiscences, rejoicing with us for staggered visits until there time to reign arises.

I hope that you have had a productive summer, as time should always be consumed wisely. It has been a pleasure coming to ridiculous surmises with you over what we call the Internet. May the Force be with you.

Your humble friend,

Starr

P.S. Of course you understand that this was not meant as a parting letter. I honestly believe that I wrote this for the sake of boredom.

O&A

First, I would like to apologize for my informal and rather unprofessional voice in the first post. Ironically, in real life I am actually a very serious and composed persona, one you would probably always discover with a thoughtful, vacant stare. I have an extreme penchant for philosophical values, and I can argue with you  for weeks on only one facet. 

Now, wasn't that a scripted intro?

Perhaps you are wondering if I will go off on another disorganized tangent today. For those who are attached to digressions, I am sincerely sorry to say that the format for this post will be a little more structured, like that of a sonnet or haiku. But for every line, you have the will to illustrate your words any direction you want. Kind of life, isn't it?

Today, we are going to contemplate on stereotypes, since people fall me in that category much too often. I may have an ineffable attention span, but that does not mean I am not versatile or active. For many of my peers, the term 'fun' is taboo in their families, and days stumble past with fluttering workbooks pages and heavily scribbled documents. Work may be important, but the scaffolding for it is sometimes too strictly structured. We live upon it, thinking it will make us a better person, but it never really illuminates the light bulb, putting us into a time line excluding the downfalls and "Golden Ages".

I'll admit that I'm pretty much a dork. Researching is key to breathing, and each time a new wrinkle crumples in my brain, I have to muse for hours on it into the claws of midnight. Even though I feel discouraged when mistakes and flaws plummet upon me, I yearn for them. They are what make me human - a true living soul. 

Essentially, there is less risk of failure when you huddle in an office cubicle for eight hours a day, but there is also a slimmer probability of success. If you really dissected the connotations of these two words, they are closely alike in every aspect. People view one as positive and another as negative, but is failure the end of your career? Is success the beginning?

Money is not life's specialty. The common assumption is that work will immediately follow with a monetary reward. But currency will soon lose its value, as fluctuating prices these days prove a future of inflation and depression. What we see with our eyes is temporal, but what we do not see is eternal. The micro and macro will linger even as light subdues to forces beyond our control and bids farewell to the master it served for countless generations. Time will continue to influence galaxies along the horizon and perhaps even mere figments of imagination. Legacies will never die.

Life is followed by death, but the end should not be mourned. Death is life, as it is another life to explore. But it should be noted that time will not fuel you forever.

Perhaps we are not worthy of being given the gift of living. So many of us slip it between our fingertips and let it shatter and go to waste. Some say that Earth was an accident in creation, an experiment failed by the Greater Good. But let it be known that nothing can happen without cause. Miracles do not exist.

If we did things upon compulsion, would we live life by its width rather than the length? If we did things we enjoyed, would everything taste a little sweeter? These are questions that are difficult to prove but equally challenging to disprove as well. 

But it is proven that if we are confident in what we do, and we take action rather than try, our possibilities of savoring the moment and focusing the point will be exponentially higher. And while we share and cooperate with others on this lone planet, we are still individuals.

We can still change ourselves. 

----------------------------

I don't think my post lived up to its title at all. My intentions were to do a reporter-theme Q&A, but that never occurred, did it? Splat me with tomatoes if you'd like.

Well, I wish you a splendid day with grandeur upon your own opinion. And if you did somehow become  diagnosed with a  cardiovascular disease while panning over this blog, I am not responsible for medical bills or anything of that sort.

Good day.

Can You See Me?

Curious title, isn't it? But hopefully you can see me, or something malfunctioned along our lines of communications. As they say, music is one of the three international languages. And music has never failed my life, except for occasional intense competition. When that occurs, practice goes up in a uproar.

Sometimes I feel the world would be a better place if we didn't have a scattered heritage; if we didn't judge each other by ethnicity and rituals. But life would be too predictable that way, wouldn't it? Of course, you have to reach Expectations before exploring beyond it, but once in a while I think of time as a gamble. You can't always control it, but through common sense, structured logic, calculated probability, and a spirit of adventure, you can hypnotize the fundamentals. The twists and turns prove a different matter, but who would want to influence that? Enthusiasm fails me there.

It would be interesting if the vernacular of every existing nation were music. Poco, vivace, and fortissimo would echo along the halls as we step into a brighter, more radiant environment. You see, all the terrors that wreck lives and dominate authority are essentially resurrected by humans, questionably our most highlighted trait the ownership of conscience. Thinking, to most people, is mostly imperceptible, due to our ancestry and the evolution that constructed our fluent momentum. Thus, our unnoticed mundane mistakes dissipate into fireworks that extinguish our balance and even savor the sweet success over some other "lesser" life form as well. If only our emotions could lapse and share a common goal, and we let go of the worth of the individual. Something would most definitely would arise from the shadows then, and our perceptions of "utopia" and "dystopia" would never coexist once more. One cannot function without the other but neither is a recipient of reality.

Of course, some uninitiated killjoy will probably nonchalantly pass by to ask, "Can music really do all that?" Well, first of all, nothing's guaranteed, so that question is a little invalid. But while music may not be able to end the will for wealth (for lust will never become extinct), it can lend a hand in connecting individuals and allow us to see each other in a new mirror, one that is fearless for the truth but willing to accept it.

If you are wondering why this blog is bestowed with the most humble title 'Vibrato', my simple response is that it is the essence of what makes music rich and resonant. Whether the vibrato is silvery or toad-like (if that even makes sense), it will never cease to fulfill its true definition. And I'll leave that thought for you to complete.

I swear my heart in saying that I will give my full efforts in trying to introduce myself in a clearer fashion for the next post. If my ramble-y self overwhelms you, please discontinue the reading of this blog. I do not want to be guilty of heart or lung problems, for that would be most disconcerting.

Until next time!