fish, don’t die

i fed the fish swimming through
the blurriness of the morning viewed
through a window obscured by
my sighs

the rain you bring in this room always
half-chokes my hearing
to a muffled vacuum

where do you go?

i forgot how the shore’s breath
tastes like, how
the sweetness of music pounding, swaying
the milks of my heart
felt like

when i lean my face against the glass
i see the back of your silhouette walking
a murky path to
only you can know where—

did you just shrug?

i tap your shoulder
only the glass squeaks

where is your hand
when i dance through sakura trees, piano keys
tickling the falling petals, daffodils
floating around me

i’ve never seen spring bloom in
our room after all, so i
learned to love the rain

have you ever smelled
what they’ve all smelled?—
the vase of roses
i always wear

you must be made of dream material
i am just pink-painted porcelain—
skipping beneath
the feet of you and your fellow giants
playing chess, or
watching tv

Follow me on instagram: @nele_ponce
I have some poetry in there.


diary entry 1/5/17

I’ve long come to a happy conclusion—several contemplations and philosophical self-inquiries later—that love is something you can feel only if you’ve learned to love yourself. This is obvious to many, and inevitable realization of life at least for those who meditate on the idea of love and the self and such matters. We realize that love is the end-result of a sense of independence and an awareness of your own needs and interests, like a squiggly line that straightens to a single, perfect, end point that twinkles. That love cannot be formed in whole if it was attempted to be made with only half; rather, love should exist as a whole before it experiences shared love. In other words, you shouldn’t try to find your other half in anyone else when your other half should already be filled with your own richness. It’s a simple concept, so much so that it’s overwhelmingly attractive.

I wonder, is it truly as simple as that? I’m not too sure anymore. How is it that I still feel pain for this love, even though I already love myself? At least I think I love myself. I’m sure I do. Or I’ve convinced myself that I do. I thought I did. Do I not truly? Maybe I don’t…

I still have unfulfilled regrets lingering after all, which cling on my back like a lightly heavy weight, which I’m not sure how to remedy, and which still remain a part of who I am. I’ve done many things that I take great pride in and that the old me would feel safe with knowing. Many redeeming self-improvements and experiences that might have erased my regrets. Yet, it seems, I have yet to redeem myself to myself, and the weight on my back has not dropped to the ground. I still walk with a slight limp, and still slightly slower than if the weight were off my back. I do not love myself entirely after all.

I can’t deny, however, that the love that I feel with William is in fact love. I feel it. I feel that it is true love; its own intensity the only proof I need to claim its validity. I feel it with the warmth in my heart when I imagine him smiling, or walking with his hands in his coat pockets, or slumping his shoulders, giving himself an aura of apathy, or when his half-closed eyes look lazily downwards at me. When I imagine all these—which have recently been blurred by my own latest problems and insecurities—I realize that I’ve been forgetting how to love.

I realize, just this instant, that it was not the world around me that had gone mad, which might have threatened the simple formula for the ultimate realization involving the experience of love: love yourself before you can love others. I needed not to engage in another extensive philosophical analysis in order to reconfigure the universal formula, for doing so would be reconfiguring it to my own insecurities (In fact, the gears and cogs within my brain were already logically sorting out the beginnings of a new theory which would undermine the original formula—most of which have already evaporated from my recollection). Instead, it was me who had momentarily gone mad from an old insecurity incited from a series of small incidents, and everything else in my life had coincidentally jumbled up in concert.

I might have to contradict myself by saying that perhaps I still do love myself. Perhaps I had only forgotten to love myself for a moment. Though I am still insecure (which I’ve just now learned about myself and now acknowledge), and I still bear the aforementioned regrets that weigh me down slightly, I love who I am nonetheless. I only hate my circumstances. Especially my recent circumstances. I’ve been really quite unhappy with these circumstances.

But I don’t think that they are circumstances impossible to fix, or at least get out of, as long as I have now acknowledged that I myself have still ways to grow and improve. I still have more about myself that I can love, all of which are still waiting for me to get there.

I’ve been angry (and still am) with William, with my relationships, and my circumstances because I thought I had my life comfortably sorted out. I was safe in all these expectations, and I fell too into the entire romance of my life that when they collapsed, I became lost. (It’s funny how I had to relearn everything I have just realized tonight. I had written numerous things about these same matters, and had given myself these lessons already. And yet, they had become so easily forgotten when my emotions become overblown and boil all the logic floating around my head.)

more on the conceptual idea of love

When we define love as the total acceptance of something for exactly what it was, is, and will be, it then becomes an impossible concept, for the concept becomes much too perfect and beyond our capacities. We can never understand anything in its entirety after all. We only know things partially, and we fill in everything else with our own ideas. Like puzzles with imagined pieces used to make up for missing pieces, conjured from already-existing pieces. But even with the pieces that are already there—that we’ve already found—such pieces of information may not even be true. In this way, the entire puzzle is perpetuated with imperfection. Although I may love cheez-its, I only refer to my love for its taste. Note that I am not expressing my love for its entirety, for it is impossible for me to know everything about it. I don’t know exactly how it was made, processed, etc. etc. I only assume it was made in a way that is not harmful to anyone or anything, or that it contains ingredients that are entirely acceptable to me. But had I known that it was made or processed in a way that somehow harms me, someone else, or something; my love for it may diminish, or even disappear entirely.

But my realization of these flaws does not now invalidate the love that I had for cheez-its. That is: although my love for cheez-its may cease in light of its shortcoming(s), my love that had existed before realizing its shortcoming(s) remains valid. I can still claim that I had loved it. This explains why people tend to fall out of love. They realize something unfavorable about the subject of their love (e.g. a person) that taints everything else about that person—in other words, the rest of the puzzle. Yet, they still loved and fully experienced it nonetheless.

So, although love in its purest most absolute form may not be possible, I can still validly claim that I did love, albeit flawed in that I did not know everything about what I loved. Which makes all love that is both experienced and given, flawed. Not that all of the love that I’ve experienced doesn’t exist entirely; just that they are imperfect. And all the love that I will ever experience in my lifetime is conceptually imperfect.

In this sense, imperfection may now even serve beneficial to me, for the less I know, the more I can love. Conversely, the more I know, the less I can love. I do not mean for anyone to pursue this sort of ignorance, because I do not believe that ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is not bliss, because the more ignorance we have the more expectations we have. And to have expectations is to pave and often shorten our paths to our own downfalls. We must instead pursue knowledge—pursue knowledge about the things we love. The more we know about the something or someone, the less likely we are to be disappointed with the things that we don’t know about them.

Queued thought: does this then make love at first sight possible?

you’re a filthy son of a bitch

you’re a filthy son of a bitch
but if you prepared me a tub of your filth
i’d bathe in it

your hair can grow in such unpleasant areas
but i would much rather tape my eyes open for it
than look where you’re not present

peanut butter makes me want to puke
but i would eat it from your mouth
if it means i get to kiss you

i’ve once lingered on a god for his surfer-like golden skin
but i would lotion myself in your oily sweat
as long as you’d let me embrace you.

Love is too big for just you

I guzzle from the trophy cup of all happy-reached
men at the music festival of Life
          Of and For All Those That Truly Lived,
revel in the glassy, minty sting of waters hushing,
whispering as they undulate
          under my sunset-glossed shoulders,
fly alongside whirling winds under the cotton
gradients of pink clouds and hazy
          blue sunlight at the dawn of rain,
dry myself of earth’s fresh mud with flower petal
towels, amidst the sweet howling silence
          of the dewy-green sea,
and munch gushing watermelons
under arid orange skies to thank the great
          All—the all that lives now and simply is.

Though I too, mourn with those who seek in greed
to the All of only loving goodness, with saluted
          arms in desperate flight from mortality,
wipe my tears for those that have walked
the rich and generous race of life
          and for those that had rushed it blindfolded too,
rage with those whom the truly powerless All
has wronged—for those who have been robbed of the riches
          of happiness and ultimate virtue,
lust with the simple dogs the material pleasures
of nonsense love in gilded disguise
          as such ugly emptiness glimmers with divinity too,
and even cry out at the rock concerts of the devils
in collective ravenous celebration of Death
          Of and For Those Too Afraid to Have Lived.

I am the conscious god who binges
to the music radio of the All; and here
          I’ve found you—a great artist to listen to.