STORIES TO BIND (My Eulogy to the Old Me)

See the ghost in me.

We all have stories to tell. We can be bad or good in someone else’s stories. Yet, we are all stories in the end. Like burning pictures turned into ashes as the photographer grieving for his lost. Yes, we are all stories in the end.

And I’m dead.
This is my eulogy to the old me.

Hearing dirty stories, hearing wildfire lies or hearing fragments from the fabricated printed receipts is something besieging on your party like a rain that is non-stop, malevolent, eerie and appalling. With their definitive faces and transitioning faces on how they connect with the absolute bubble bursting in the air encouraging you to join with the heist and be one of their culprits – nothing is ever undertaken in a pinky swear of an idyllic childhood. And then, they were like: upon getting a glimpse of your past transcending to your future, they turned to face you, eyes appraising, eyes assessing, eyes reading – running up and down and then up and down again with their usual tricks about dealing with cards or they’re like paparazzi binding stories with their binoculars all up in the headlines; and you’re in a hot water again. Truly, rumors fly.

I hate to say this, but this is why we can’t have nice things. And I’d rather go pshawed and fied on anyone who disagrees! This is how the world works. No more burying the hatchets from now on, for I will be going to rain on someone’s parade. Like burning witches on the witching hour, slaying dragons with their two-faced behind burqa, hunting vultures and lively kissing fish whisperers as the leaves telling the wind to contaminate the air, well, I am your nightmare and it’s time for me to say, “checkmate” as the time will be my ultimate truthteller while you are trying to recycle wasted time. And I cannot wait to see you manipulating your failing game bending and mending the brokenness of that fractured bone as if it heals in an instant antidote of articulation. Brace for the fall!

The old me has gone. Feel the heat of the brand new me. See the role you made me play! The “he said, she said” becomes an epitome of my venting computer-generated veracity. Mic dropping on the floor. Throwing stones on the pedestal. Washing the dishes made from stain. And I will never gonna bring a knife to a gun fight; for I will make sure that will you know that it was I who made this end. Et tu brute to the pretenders! Here comes the lightweight. Run!!!

Trees

I smell your colors.
Scattered with ink of different personalities beyond imaginary lines
I hoped to be extraordinary but brutally unstable.
I have seen you from a far.
I have seen your art – your stain.
I can still see you.
You can’t hide on me.

You put a number on me.
Stabbing me.
Pulling me.
Shading me.
Changing summer into winter.
Hanging me from your tree of unhappiness
wondering what it is I’m looking for or what is in store in your mind,
In your heart,
In your head,
In your soul.

How famished you are in the dark!
Are you hungry for more?
‘cause you keep on coming back for more!
Plagiarizing terms of your creator like saying,
“Hey! Whatever, I invented you!”
No acknowledgement needed.
No credits.
No shoutouts.
Nothing.

Just a juvenile scam; never a quitter.
A camouflage.
A copyright infringement intended.
Just pretenders and sirens.
Boom… gone.
We moved on.
Who’s laughing now?
I gotta laugh!
Leaving you with my permanent mark.

Trees as something definitive and exquisite in nature.
Trees: Standing tall, but a furniture in display.