WHITE FLAG

By Invictus

Words sometimes do not stay true to form. When used skillfully, they can squeeze out the sweetest of juice and throw away the bitter peel. I use metaphors to hide the forbidding shape of grief and unload my depression out of my chest forcing you to read every writing I post about how messed up life has been. But this isn't mere writing anymore.These words are the aftermath of a battle. This is a war cry, a sound of loss and victory and betrayal. This is me throwing grenades and dodging bullets hoping to see Life plant a white flag on the battlefield. 

Laughter must be the best tool for a masquerade. We conceal that face (the one that we use when we choose to watch Miracle in cell No. 7 alone in the fortress of our bedroom) because it is never fun to be in the company of a person who whispers words of love to his own misery every night.

The face of hardship is the one that is revealed when the Chinese old woman lifts the head of her Micky Mouse costume after a day of parading as a mascot to earn money for her son. Hardship is the texture of rough and callous hands that grip the hoe in the farm digging the battered roots of his spirit in the soil.

Sadness sprouts from decay. They say it gets worse before it gets better. Biology says decomposition is necessary for the cycle of life. But it does not explain the macabre of unrelenting massacre of dreams, the extermination of every hopeful cell in your body, how the liquid of life passes through the funnel of relentless annihilation. No, this is not mere writing anymore. It has not been for a long time.

Getting a grip is sometimes as simple as gripping a piece of chalk. Sometimes, I forklift my own frustration through these literary pieces I teach. I identify with Beowulf's over-the-top confidence because I, too, know the taste of victory only to get choked by my own narcissism. My heart goes out to Queen Guinevere because, I, at some point, was torn between what I needed to be and what I wanted to be. But you're still going to call my tears a visual aid, something that helps you understand other people's situations but not mine. No, this is not mere teaching anymore. This is me leaving my heart right there, for everyone to see, for I am the person who attempts to see through people's hearts but never actually understanding how my own skips like a broken CD every time I reach an episode of rejection, of fear,of paranoia. I drink every ounce of numbness to feel the feeling of not feeling just like how Romeo takes a swig of that poison. No, this is not a lecture on literature anymore.

Still, there are days when I feel the urge to collect the residue of lost dreams, but even a child is taught not to pick up crumbs of bread on the floor. At night, I howl at the moon in hopes of reclaiming that voice that is now an echo from a distant place. It is never a bad idea to grab a souvenir from the beach, but when I stopped hearing the sound of the ocean, I broke the seashell. It is quite tempting to let go of the kite's string to see how far it can go. But life is a bully. The moment you unclench your fist, it starts beating you to a pulp. And all you can do is to bleed yourself dry. No, this is not poetry anymore. It has not been for a long time.