after the quake

Week 1 - Anger

In this life, there are no signs, only affirmations of what we want to see.

Today, I’m writing about signs—or the lack thereof.

Today, I’m writing about faded photographs, burnt letters, and stuffed garbage bins.

Today, I’m writing about one stormy night instead of once upon a time. Dark clouds instead of blue skies. About castles being burned and princesses being beheaded. About tragic heroes falling through the pit of darkness or getting ravaged by feisty creatures from the underworld.

Today, I’m writing about black and silver and gray.

Today, I’m writing about sharks in the seat of power, angry rogues raving about prejudice, aimless wanderers going places, songs that don’t rhyme, shoes that don’t fit, deceitful kisses in between sheets.

Today, I’m writing about stars. Dead stars, mourning stars, fallen stars.

Today I’m writing about people. Those who lurk in the murky corners of the social world. Those who wear their miserable past like a glowing emblem. Now I know the price they paid for an ounce of wisdom. The scrap of youth they surrendered for a slice of better judgment.

Today, I’m writing about love—or the lack thereof. About sad truths and awakenings. About bitter endings and even bitter beginnings.

Today, I’m writing about love—the lack thereof. After all the stories I’ve heard, none of it warned me it would hurt this bad. And I can’t believe I’m writing the exact same lines of the men and women of history. Those who loved and fought and lost. Those who gave up their arms and legs only to find their destinies pre-decided and pre-written by some magical hands. I knew them all by heart. I just didn’t understand because the signs told me I was a major actor in the grand scheme of things.

Today, I’m writing about silence.

Or the lack thereof.

Because today, the battle begins. It’s me against this miserable chain of thoughts running through my head.

This is what I go through minutes before you wake up. While monsters creep out from under my bed, you sleep the untroubled sleep in that cozy corner where evenings soothe and mornings inspire. And as you wake up to sunshine, as you contemplate on the exciting possibilities of your day, my hand aches and trembles as I write these lines.


Week 2 – Grief

Where does it go when it dies? Love.

If the law of energy states that nothing in this world can be created or destroyed, where does love go when it goes away?

Does it wane with the dying embers of burnt letters? Or float with the black smoke of boxed memories?

Does it fade with the fading faces in old photographs? Does it disappear with the ink that made up those smiles? Smiles that should have been frozen forever. Silent laughter that wasn't supposed to die down.

Does it silently fall through the cracks and crevices of memory? Like what happens to good dreams when we open our eyes? Or does it just lie dormant in some forgotten place? Like a shiny silver coin in the pocket of your old jeans. A gold locket in a candy jar. Or an old diary in a box of old toys.

Does it change its direction, change its form, change its mind?

When it dies, does it resurrect, does it go to heaven?

When it dies, if it ever dies, does it really die?


Week 3 – Surrender

And so if it must die, let it. But don’t die with it, that’s stupid.

Because you see, hearts are broken every day. And in case you haven’t noticed, the world has already stopped caring. That’s nothing personal.

You can fight hard. You can continue to kick and struggle to remain on the surface. After all, the world loves Cinderella stories. The world applauds stories of unassuming protagonists who fought losing battles and won by some stroke of luck. But when the gritty reality kicks in, you’ll remember that not every prince charming falls in love with a maid.

You can fight hard or you can fight smart. You can pick your battles and channel your energy to that which can give you a better chance of survival. It’s not the way of the coward, just as not all brave men have their own spots on the wall of fame. Not all brave men won the war. You’ve never heard about them because the world doesn’t pay attention to those who simply tried and never made it. Losing by default isn’t the same as dying for a worthless cause. It’s either you lose your pride or your life, it’s really up to you.

So you lose a little pride, and possibly a chance to have a book titled after your name. It will just collect dust in somebody’s shelf anyway. And if you die, you only end up in the obituary. Nobody reads obituaries. Remember, you only get to die once, so unless it's morbidly spectacular then it's not worth it.

And so, must it lose its fire, let it. Dying is the natural consequence of everything beautiful. But then, if it must die, drown it not with a bucket of snow, for it will only give you the greatest shock of your life. Don't even try to extinguish it with your own breath, for a fire has the natural tendency to fight back when its existence is being attacked. If it must really die, give it the dignity it deserves. Let it die a natural death. Let it leave a bright orange hue long after it’s gone. Let it die like the sunset. Slowly... silently... beautifully.