The Night

            When the night comes, I hear a-calling for my soul. When the night comes, I feel the urgency of a thousand fools. When the night comes, I surrender to the pressure of its soothing infinity and, consequently, to its drowning presence. When the night comes, the moment politely escapes from these dull concrete walls that perpetuate me to a maze of mirrors. The moment becomes real, and so real it remains, for when the amber lights glow through the curtains of my room I feel no refrain. When the night comes, I become the moment. When the night comes, I dance to the backbeat of my pounding heart.

            When the night comes, I commit to the whispering breath of the sky. When the night comes, I celebrate every obstacle (and the lack thereof).  When the night comes, I repent for every word I attempted to own. When the night comes, I furl into the fragrance of its yet unfathomed power. I am preached through its mute utterance, for the wise do not speak. When the night comes, silence shall overwhelm us all. Silence shall be the foundation of it all, for it is the hymn of the night. Silence shall be the language of your mind, for in words we speak but in seldom habit we listen to words. Silence will sing the last song of our lives. Silence is the voice of the night, and the night, the night vivifies it all.

...into the night.

Of Words and Other Dilemmas

I stood plain, volatile and invisible.

Dead in motion, free in the depth of her spoken silence,

for the land is quiet and infinite when the moon rises

and so nothing is ever full of tone; full of meaning.

She conquered it all in inquisitional whispers, 

she hid, patiently, protected in crenelations,

protected in words, sheltered in their empty aegis,

shielded in their capacity for exploration.

Hereon, the cannons of self-indulgence

foray upon all that it is mistaken, all that is expressed,

so expressed through dusty bifurcations,

and so expressed in the cadence of an insipid sound.

She conceived a definition for the undefined

and the true miracle deteriorated,

the bliss faded away, sheer beauty was now shattered;

your eyes were now mere logic.

Therefore the paper doves flutter at a distance,

a dispute of tone in the garden of light.

The death and resurrection of perception

upon the imminent conquest of the night.

The moment is defined in grains of solitude,

the moment is what it shall be

and what it shall be only; 

an enfilade of fortuitous details, a cluster of dreams.

I seal the light and finally, in cold illusions, I imagine my own night. 

We see them kiss in subtleties,

through windows they interact, for the moment

will long what is necessary, in deaf request and imminent charge.

Letter to Her

And so he muttered, between a prolonged sigh and a swift smirk, 

"the heroes we once knew, now ramble in extinction."

The guiding line, so gray and distant, is nimble in defeat,

poor in verve and large in comfort; yonder it remains, away from guilt.

Therefore, after such prevailing kiss, I find myself disarmed;

no symbol was ever so full and unsure, and blessed in fury.

It is the faith of the universe, full of consequence and reaction,

mirroring its antithesis, whispering the truth.

I find you ubiquitous but intermittent,

like the sun when it parades off the sky, 

away from the shores of the night, but for the night,

like Pythias, when he left only to come back.

Therefore, after your pondering gesture, I find myself lost;

the trees are now green and infallible; vibrant in ostentation.

The crowd is the jungle, but that jungle is not my land,

I'll wait for your words, I know they will arrive in time.

Our past belongs to the labyrinths of the night,

our truce was written in silence and without our hands,

thus it is our lips that plow through the tides,

into the unfathomed waters and across the prairies covering the land.

The Five Seasons

Let the petal bloom

in fascination, in drawing charms;

maturing on time and without rush,

irreparably glorious amidst dry gloom and stripped arms.

Lush contours in full nights,

toboggans falling from the cornice of the sky.

 Your lips like water melting in crimson dye,

foray into my devoted sigh and never, never, never die.

Let the petal bloom,

let it implode in wild coquetry; 

a paradox of emerald prairies,

an alchemy of crude volumes.

The welcoming palm awaits patiently,

the petal weights like the standing air,

invisible to the senses and foreign in nature.

The end arrives, and at last, we had the will to move on.

Let the petal bloom,

in deluges of change and warm inconsistence;

a palette of infinite tones,

an enterprise of opposition.

Let the freezing death conquer it all,

a storm of mute elegance and white winds.

Your lips like gliding snow perforate my pores,

puissant and delicate like pale gossamer.

The Gunpowder Plot (The Role of the Rebel in Post-Modern Society) Pt. 1

After reading the most recent news regarding the status of the DREAM act, I could not help but to think of the pathetic societal roles which we have for so long now bestowed upon ourselves. Throughout the trembling pace of the world’s history we have seen a myriad of conflicts. Some, unimportant to our very natural interest, have passed unmarked and unnoticed. Others, supposedly relevant and intrinsically interpretative of our very essence, have been transformed into chronological landmarks of time for they apparently serve as beacons of remarkable traits that should be forever remembered. Both bygone tragedy and success, though usually olden at best, prove pivotal to the confection of our very own philosophical and ideological principles.  We grow from studying our historical patrimony and so, we build upon it, one chapter at a time, accumulating lessons and thus accumulating tools for the future.

Hereon, it is not in a futile manner that I will mention what I believe to be already known, but, as I auspiciously presume, some of us will value the reminder. History was never intended to be an objective narration of facts nor a reconstruction of the absolute truth for it usually represents a unilateral perspective of a particular episode that allows for numerous vantage points.  Nonetheless, it is not my purpose to discern the methods by which historians teach us of the apposite past but rather to merely speculate on the elemental value of some lessons that need further revision.

I do not wish to unleash some sort of untamed beast here. I simply want to dexterously express my dearest concern upon the issues that have influenced an entire population. See, history holds its own chisel too, sculpting society with the sheer brushes of its wrist, cutting and reshaping the very nature of who we are. Every hero, thief, peasant, politician, priest, soldier and civilian who came long before us has left a legacy of thought, a footprint as proof of what we were and, most importantly, a sign of where we should go. The vicissitudes of time provide us with enough lessons so that we do not become prisoners of our own devices.  Therefore, in lieu of providing more vichyssoise verbiage, I will cite particular historical evidence that I believe to be quite relevant.

King James I and IV of Scotland

Four hundred years ago, a group of thirteen recusant Catholics decided to place and detonate 36 barrels of gunpowder in order to obliterate the House of Lords during the Opening of Parliament and therefore kill King James I along with everyone one else in it. After much planning and some unexpected delays, the date for the attack was finally moved and set to November 5^th. Guy Fawkes, a specialist in gunpowder, was in charge of the barrels located inside a rented undercroft lying right underneath the House of Lords. After carefully setting up the charges and assuring that they were ready for detonation, he hid them all under coal and wooden sticks. It was November 4^th. Fawkes returned to revise everything was in proper conditions. He sat next to the barrels and, for the last time, reviewed every single detail for, as he very well understood, much was pending on the efficacy of this detonation.

Everything was going to change for these Catholic conspirators. No more religious persecution, no more repression, no more totalitarian decrees annihilating Catholics from their basic rights to live peacefully.  With King James, the Prince of Wales, and most of his leading ministers dead, they would seize young Prince Charles and Princess Elizabeth and raise a general revolt to return Catholicism to the land. Nonetheless, their hopes of reinstating religious tolerance were quickly terminated when Guy Fawkes was discovered and arrested the morning of November 5^th while guarding the gunpowder. Eventually, the remaining conspirators were all tracked and, imminently, shared Guy Fawkes’ horrendous sentence. Furthermore, the individuals responsible for the plot were hanged, drawn and quartered.

Now, it is a matter of the utmost importance vis-à-vis the substance of this narration that we understand the elemental value of what followed to this particularly episode. Failed terrorist attempts are usually not celebrated but, on this particular occasion, King James decided to turn November 5^th into some sort of national holiday. Why would he choose to venerate such day? Well, it is to my most sensitive creativity that I must thank for designing a potential answer. The truth, however, is that I will never really know. Many theories surround the Gunpowder Plot. Some historians believe that the protestant elite used the plot itself in order to raise an even more fervent anti-Catholic sentiment. 

In my opinion, the reasons behind such an ironic commemoration differ from that which is usually taught in history books. My speculation is hereon connected to the roles we occupy in modern society. While the plot could be analyzed as a rudimentary act of wild desperation devised by an isolated party of idealists, it could, also, inasmuch be read as an act of the crudest bravery. King James wanted to eliminate any potential ambiguity and, did so, by celebrating the day on which England’s very own health and wealth was challenged by a group of rebels. Through the elaboration of an appreciative festivity, King James shifted the focus of the attack and aimed it towards the entire kingdom. Suddenly, the monarchy’s health was important to not just the King and his Parliament but to everyone else as well.

Four hundred years later, we are still being manipulated by those who do nothing for us. In spite of the slight socio-structural changes, we still live in somewhat of a totalitarian order. Unfortunately, this time, we are far more responsible for our reality than we were ever before. Though the populations of the 17^th century were perhaps less educated and less knowledgeable than the populations occupying the world of the relative present, they, unlike us, never really had a choice on who to call for specific legislative positions. We do. We elect our own puppet-masters. But, what is even more stupefying is that we choose to depend of them in order for change to take place. We deem them as “representatives” of their respective constituency but, with unveiled eyes, we can clearly see that they turn any insinuation of progress into some sort of delayed, cumbersome process.

Taught and fed by a pedagogical snare that allows for information to reward more prudent behavioral traits, we have subsequently evolved into complacent individuals who lack the initiative to even challenge what we suspect to be fraudulent in essence. History teaches us of the Gunpowder Plot as an act of the most idiotic nature and, in even higher magnitudes, it teaches us of the insanity suffered by those extremely irrational conspirators who wanted to fight for religious tolerance and ended up dying for the cause. In other words, we are taught to doubt our own ideals and principals; we are taught to follow and never challenge. We are taught to comply and to become complacent with our inability to control decisions which influence our daily lives.

I propose now a higher truth. I propose now a different philosophy. If we have engineered society in the likes of a self-absorbed, stratified, organizational monster then I propose we destroy its tentacles in hopes of regaining control over our lives. Why do we depend on legislation in order to educate the young minds of today? Education is not a national treasure but rather an individual and international right which should never be denied nor bargained with. The key to possibly overcoming these overwhelming weapons of mass-dependence is education. Only knowledge can lead us to the proper state of mind and only knowledge can provide us with the nurturing components that will guarantee a positive social involvement. We cannot and should not depend on our governments for they are obsolete without the support of their people. Let us rethink about our roles in society and let us design a better tomorrow.

To Win or Not to Win, that is the Question

Argentina recently beat Spain four goals to one in what seemed to be one of the most exciting international friendlies of the world. But, when burning in flames due to what felt like an exalting victory, I believe we should better meditate and, therefore, provide some analysis in regards to how the team really played and, additionally, infer how true winners should be taught.

First, it is usually quite despicable not to congratulate the victor, for, in most part, his efforts have proved to be efficiently consolidating of a particular trait or, in this instance, aptitude.  But let it be said that on each side – both the winner’s and the loser’s -- there are underlying mistakes which linger until the proper analysis is made. Even though it is the victor’s self-adapted responsibility to write history as it was conceived, it is also his responsibility, or theirs, depending on the numerical magnitude within the involved company, to take a rather introspective standpoint in order to further the improvement of his particular enterprise. 

Now, what should remain clear at all times is that winning should never be used as an indicative tool to measure improvement or, in this case, doctrinal success. Winning is never the means to an end, but rather, the end to an immaculate mean.  Though it is remarkably futile to stipulate that winning is an irrelevant component on any competitive realm, it is also ill-informed to predicate that winning is the key of any healthy endeavor. I should, then, in order to facilitate the digestion of this piece, provide you with far more precise elements so that the paradigm becomes less virtual and perhaps more real.

            Let us ignore that this is a sport we are debating about. Many socially relevant conclusions can be drawn from this pending paradigm. For instance, if a certain group is initially instilled with a philosophy which demands for them to exclusively mend a particular mission, then that group itself will not stop until such mission is obviously completed.  Now, if the method preached to accomplish the aforementioned is somewhat ill conceived or even inexistent, then the group will become desperate and it will mend its mission by taking any means necessary, therefore, the group will not compete nor truly participate but rather survive.

Hereon, I suppose we all understand that by surviving I mean that this particular party has adopted a perhaps somewhat inefficient methodology. See, it is not a matter of teaching how to win but rather a matter of teaching how important an idea is. In other words, let us not appeal to winning or losing for that is not teaching at all, instead, let all of us understand what the game is truly about. Let us therefore unite efforts in order to fully engage any endeavor as a league that understands the impervious nature of an excellent idea. Though this is simply a sport, I believe we should all attempt not to just do things in order to satisfy the initial need but rather we should aim to do things exceedingly well. True winners are taught by the latter. 

A Winter Portrait

"No man lives more than a hundred years, and not one in a thousand that long. And even that one spends half his life as a helpless child or a dim-witted oldster. And of the time that remains, half is spent in sleep, or wasted during the day. And in what is left he is plagued by pain, sickness, sorrow, bitterness, deaths, losses, worry, and fear. In ten years and more there is hardly an hour in which he can feel at peace with himself and the world, without being gnawed by anxiety."

Apparently, men cannot make decisions which involve change, unless of course, their very own existence is threatened by the consistencies of a certain routine. It is at the edge of self-destruction that, with great doubt, men react in order to alter their own fate. When facing the many woes of life, men will tolerate and ignore everything. The progressive erosion caused by sentimental pains will not incite them at all, unless their very pride is at risk of hosting irrevocable damage.  It is during moments of extreme pain when men evaluate atonement and self-improvement; it is during the dissipation of certainty that men look for new ways of defining themselves. Furthermore, and though this entire process could be coined as "maturing," it is truly, nothing more than an intuitive reaction which strives for the preservation of a certain norm. Men change because they need updated domestication and instruction; men change because they have no choice. 

Now, if the paradigm was to change, let us imagine for a second that the subject for this analysis is replaced: instead of men, lets allow the group called "human beings" to replace this hypothetical space. Let us pretend that women and children are also now included. Let us think properly and accordingly and then, just then, let us think about how we behave. Soon you will realize that we are as intuitive as lions and as productive as slobs. Aren't we as primitive as any other species then? Isn't the difference between us and other animals now seemingly slight? Isn't disappointing that we only take matters in our hands when we are faced with the most horrible consequences? We migrate when resources are scarce and almost depleted, we look for cures when we never cared for prevention, we look for reasons when life itself seems to be far too plain, justifying the anthropic principle, justifying anything that will make us grand and unique.

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, said Henry Thoreau. It is our capacity for withholding distress that never ceases to amaze me. Men fail to live happily because they rely on everything but themselves. Men fail to live happily because they never understand nor comprehend the virtues of life. It is through the pursuit of altruism that the individual values the importance of love; it is through love that men identifies the qualities of such cabal and unselfish endeavor as true qualities of good. Love is perhaps, along with nature, the only tautological element available; love is the only thing which justifies itself. It is, ultimately, through love, that men devises a forking path and it is through this self-sacrifying path that men grow and mature into unique monuments of joy.

All men aspire for happiness regardless of what happiness might mean to them. All men aspire for laughter and tranquility,but unfortunately, not all men aspire for altruism. We are far too selfish and self-absorved, we are far too blind and fearful. To give in the name of love is far too dangerous because then, we are at the mercy of emotions which cannot be rationalized. We are nothing more than ambassadors to our own petty concerns, and even though we truly know about the dancing winds of nature, we selectively enhance the notions which fulfill our immediate interests -- We are too scared to invest ourselves entirely to one cause, it is too precarious and imprudent to simply feel and move with the missions of the heart.

Naturally, I would hope for change and then instigate, with impressive effectiveness, regarding the ways of love. But it is with great pain that I expose myself as a man of flaking manners. If there is something which will always remain fruitfully true is the potential in men for self-improvement. I only wish for mistakes and for windows of intellectual remodeling. But I also know that I'm far from following these conventions which I very ostentatiously describe. This is why I wish, again and again, for the aegis of innocence in the face of pain. I hope for the strength which will let me identify my deficiencies and ergo grant me with the ways towards a better self. 

In the end, we should all strive to love again, as passionately as we loved the first time. To love again without remorse and without prejudice; to forget past scars and to allow for mistakes, in their most honest sense, to guide us forward. We should all hope for love to be the muse, we should all hope for love to be the condition which stimulates our pulse. But, most importantly, we should all hope and wish for the capacity to act preemptively; we should all hope for the clarity which will allow us to read the signs of a dying element, we should all become diligent in preserving that which provides and allows for a never-ending season of love. Is there ever anything at risk considering how brief our stay on this world is?