Memo to life

 

Human beings should do without memories. Good memories, if relived, leave people yearning for more, leave prideful people believing they were as good as before, heck, they sometimes leave people in pain just recalling the last time they had a good conversation with someone who has died.

 

Bad memories work the same way but worse. They are a classic example of the return of the repressed, constant recurring nightmares with the sole aims of haunting the living with the dead. Dead but never dying, they gnaw at the corners of your mind, threatening to swallow your existence. They impede progress because they replay mistakes. They traumatise. They are the reason why some mentally-ill never recover.

 

Fuck, human beings should live day by day. Each day beginning on its own, each day a new start, extinguished of the past glories and uglies.

 

Except in this life, we will never remember each other. We sleep and wake up to strangers each day. Our love will last a mere 24 hours. It erases itself at 00:00. But if I wake and still decide to love you, wouldn't that mean I truly love you without obligations and preset responsibilities? 

 

 

Resistance is our preservation

 

You see that driftwood on the water; going back and forth. Undecided, willing the tide to bring it somewhere. It is unclear where it is headed for, but that is not important. A driftwood has no power nor autonomy over its end or existence. It drifts, aimless and travels with the waves of water particles that carry its weight. It shows no sign of resistance. Its primary purpose is to stay afloat and hope to land somewhere safe. Where it plants itself in hard solid ground and rot in peace. Corrode with time. And then wondering in its decayed state, could I have been more than this?

 

The society has no space for driftwood. We can liken society as a tidal force, its waves constantly pushing you forward, forcing you to accept their rhythm. They assume that the end goal of us all is There. All of us have to get There. What do you mean you don't want to get There?

 

There isn't space for you to think for a moment. A driftwood like you struggles to breathe as the passing wave hits you and runs over your drowning face. You gasp for air and the water goes into your mouth; drowns your words. This process repeats.

 

Until one day, the driftwood took out its strength and resisted. He fought hard against the tide. Resistance is autonomy, it told itself. Resist to protect yourself, to protect your values. To resist is to control, to own control over your life.

 

And there in the distance, you see a piece of driftwood floating away, as though it had a mind of its own.

 

 

Tragedy of the Flame

 

The day I met you, you ignited a very special part of my heart. It was as though you managed to find the trapdoor to this room where the light has never shone, a room so dark and forsaken it is musty and dusty. You turned on a light and a part of me came alive. With time, this flame grew strong and steady as it fed on the oxygen you provided. Some days you fed the flame knowledge and it would burst into an ecstatic ball of strong fury, swallowing this catalyst with such hunger and joy. The heart grew brighter with the nourishment. And it asked for more; more guidance, more steps to progress, more advice.

 

One day, the flame grew so strong it almost burnt the heart. Passion reigned in this new order. It blazed with an urgency quite undeterred, bulldozed through everything believing anything was possible. And all it took was a job that put a jar over this fire. And the poor flame sat there bound by its feetless legs, and the very thing that bounds drips down from its own defeated body. The flame grew feeble, and in its last attempt to shine, it drowned in its own pool of matter, as though it was always there as a preparation for its foreseen death.

 

The world applauds victoriously, as they watched through the glass at the tragedy of the flame.BW