Lost in Translation

Enough of the pestering quirk, that simple melodic lullaby turned into a hideous discordant sound of buses and trains. It became a malady in the midst of angelic glances; a perfidy along the road to Paradiso. And whose fault is the incursion of this malignant-like tumor of suppressed ignorance and bestial criticism?The hard-pressed wounds continue to linger down south the tropical savanna; forcefully making its turn to reach the peak of the un-molested Himalayas. Where art thou is the language of Aphrodite? Could less be it found, the irreversible motives and intentions lying beneath the inhospitable façade?

Err, what am I exactly doing?

I have been teaching for almost three weeks by now; I can't rub off my shoulders the eternally bogging question "Am I really doing this?" or better yet, "Am I destined to do this?".

The first question reveals a very obvious answer. I don't even need a pinch on my gradually darkening arms to bring me into a jolt toward reality. Yes I am teaching; and slowly, I am learning and unlearning century-old beliefs and guises of such. Here I have contended with previous facts and myths. Interestingly, some myths were truthful than the facts.

The second question is more of a pensive reflection than a wake-up call; funny though, it's actually giving me goosebumps. Who would have thought that something I really didn't like doing will be included in my roster of, err, relevant experience. For now though, this teaching vocation wasn't frustrating at all; well, neither it is fulfilling just yet. Yes, it's just a passing of time - a mere glide in a dense glob of snow. I don't even know if I'm gonna last. But when I see the faces of the students and check them in awe, I am always struck with a handful of question, "Did they get what I say?" or "Did I make sense?" or "Was I effective in trying to, o well, educate them (for whatever that means)".

Well, anyway, to say that this is my destiny is far too early. I am just like anyone else who, unfortunately, had to start it all over again. It is an imperative process for someone like me who's not born lording over whims and caprices. In fact, I was born with limited resources to even think of initiating a humanitarian mission. But, that seems to be in my heart. And they say, what's in you heart will flow on your hands. Superhero complex? Nah, I don't think so. Boredom? Hmm, perfectly suitable. But honestly, I don't know. And I am just taking each moment as an object of my affection.

A Preparation stage? Err, for what?

Write Even.

Write, even there is nothing to write about. Scribe, even when there is no impetus to. Stroke the pen, empty its ink. Or glide those fingers on the keyboard's surface. And see how the cursor blinks and how the white space is consumed by thin black lines and curves trying to paint a simple picture.

Write, to see how the mind works. How it unburdens itself with thoughts not so usual. Feel the movement of letters and words as they encapsulate a meaning. A meaning never originally meant nor intented.

Write, to move your world and present a case. Capture the transition of the moment. Express that instantaneous emotion unraveling within the marrow of your humanity. Grasp that subdued eternity imprinted by the mute workings of the synapses.

Write, and write freely as if there are no rules; no codes to interfere and block your liberty. For in writing, you create your own world. You paint your own picture. And you sensitize with your emotions and experiences that holds on to the sensibility of your meaningless and empty life.