subtleoasis

I am a procrastinator. I like doing things later, which end-up not being done at all. I consider this as one of the worst sickness that has been controlling me for so long. I am a slave of myself. I am chained to regret. I am prisoner held within the dark and suffocating cell of procrastination. I want to be free.

Carpe diem set me free - it opened my eyes to new horizons and it challenged me for real. I've been dreaming about heights, about places to go, about achievements about things that soon I could reach. Then carpe diem came by and told me that what's important is the now, the present. How I use this wonderful present matter so much that tomorrow may not be as important as what I have now. So far I may not be talking with much sense, let me be more personal.

I fear death but I feel, before, that it is still far and I shouldn't be worrying about it. Not until I saw this flower on the ground. Beside it lies the same flower, but without life, without vitality, without the joy that the former brings - it's dead. The same fate is in store for beautiful flower that my lens caught. Perhaps hours after I've released my camera's shutter the vibrant hues that tinted it and its supple and full coat would dry, discolor, die. Its life is bound to be wimpled by the greyness of death.

The same is true for me. The time isn't certain on when my death would be - but what's certain is death. It may come a few hours after typing this piece or before the turn of the century, who knows? There is another thing that I'm sure of, that which I could change, use and build on - the present.

With the certainty of death at hand, carpe diem challenges me: use every moment, suck the marrow out of life, live as if it is your last. All I have is what I have right now. This moment may be my last, this day could spell the consummation of my entire existence. I fear death, but it doesn't scare me to use every ounce of my strength, every air that I breathe to build on the present - to satiate it with love, to labor with the sense of mission.

I still dream, I still aim for greatness but now I work for it minute by minute, hour by hour, day after day - seizing every moment, making it last - not later but now.

Labels: an attempt

by Web Correspondent at 2:35 PM | Permalink | Comments

still, undaunted,
mute, unspoken,
felt, unheard -
immersed in a moment's
wait

waiting, listening...
shouldhavedonewhatIdidn'tOhwhathaveIdone?
gone,

panting gasping gulping air streams,
heart's beating and beating and beating and
gulp,
sigh...

cold smears finally escaped
from pores, eventually perspired.
agony, ebbed.

body throbs.

GUILTY.

Labels: verse's freedom

by Web Correspondent at 2:23 PM | Permalink | Comments

d-day has,
come
it's time,
to go (       ).

d, day
has come,
it's
time to
go (       ).

d day will come, when
it's time...
go,
(       ).

d-day
will come, before
it's time
to go: (       ).

d-day came,
it is time,
go (home).

by Web Correspondent at 8:57 PM | Permalink | Comments

And so it began,
to move beyond your face unend
-ing, wimpling the draught
that brought sad thoughts of
loneliness, of hate - oh, that date.

and so it began to move beyond your hands' reach
-ing, seeping through that hardened, encased
heart that never, never met pain.

and so it began to move beyond you
-rself. apart from the shelf that
stealth yourself - at last you felt!
as it melt upon the silt and filth -
upon that bitter
feeling - soaking your desk -
quelling the wails and hails
from with
-in, and so
it began
as if
won't
eb

b
. 

Labels: verse's freedom

by Web Correspondent at 7:33 AM | Permalink | Comments

seedling planted
among the gray tinted
floor cemented.

sprouted, bloomed
reaching that sky blued -
hopeful and joy-filled.

saddened, dismayed,
hurt, optimism blackened
living as if dead. +

seedling planted
among the gray tinted
floor cemented -
some height reached
upon the blue vastness
feeling quenched -
still battered, ailed,
lined with sadness,
now,
a tree,
stood.

Labels: verse's freedom

by Web Correspondent at 2:24 PM | Permalink | Comments

Love's been the talk of the town
Peace, I leave to those in war
Happiness, to the one whose life's been great
Success for him who's been victorious and brave.

Hate's been love's unloved
Turmoil, I beg not to jot
Sorrow, to someone's lone and frail
Defeat for him whose life's been just there.

Nothing seems to be my pen,
Something's that which I wish to pen,

Pausing salvaged me from my pain...
To write something from nothing -
    that which I ought to do in writing.

Labels: verse's freedom

by Web Correspondent at 9:26 PM | Permalink | Comments

I never have written something like this before. Something quite old and unknown. Something I've never tried doing before - something out of nothing.

As if I have a pen who draws ink from the air. As if I am filling the whole universe with my words - words from a mind that's quite empty. Writing something from nothing an odd idea, it is. Something from nothing, where's all the sense in it?

Yet, I write and draw some ideas from the hollowness of my mind. From nothingness I write everything which I desire. For to draw out something from nothing the whole universe conspires and leads my pen to write. Something out of nothing, that's something I've just done. This is what I want to write about. 

Labels: an attempt

by Web Correspondent at 9:18 PM | Permalink | Comments