I can’t help but wonder. Have I really been happy? I’ve always thought that helping others achieve their own happiness will help me find mine. I’ve always been that kind of person who seems to enjoy helping out whoever’s in need, perhaps even to the point of giving up my own. However, I’m pretty aware that I haven’t found mine. Each time I would help out someone, maybe a friend of mine or maybe a stranger, I can’t help but feel envious of them afterwards. I mean, how do they know what makes them really happy? How come they’re so sure that they are indeed happy and that I’ve helped them find theirs? I know it seems greedy of me to ask but I really wish that each time I help someone out, I also experience at least a nib of the happiness they claim to have. Each laugh I try to purge out is always an attempt, and often in vain, to have a share of that bliss. Perhaps I simply cannot afford to be happy, or at least find its full realization in my life because it’ll always be at the expense of others. Nevertheless, I still believe in sharing what I have in pursuing the greater good even if I often lose the fruits I reap.
I saw a sullen pile of flesh
standing behind blunt ice.
Its washed-out eyes were buried
within the skin that I detested.
The creature made a putrid smile
As its nails began ripping my neck.
I tried sewing back the patches
but it was all in vain.
Anguish began choking me.
A dry voice drifted in my ear.
I shook and held my breath.
“Give up. I am you.”
I remember the day I traded my humanity
for a bite of the apple you hold.
It tasted like a bittersweet flame
which engulfed my soul until I grew cold.
Now, the ecstasy of the apple is gone.
My eyes began radiating its own luminescence.
I rose from my grave and wafted back home
to finally justify my existence.
I brought back Prometheus’ fire
to the world I believed I held dearly.
But as the gates I forged begin to rust,
a ruthless void begins consume me.
I may have forgotten how sugar tastes like,
and gray is the only color I can still see.
But I can stomach such fragrant drought,
if I’d be able to remain free.
Or am I really free?
You pricked your finger again
but no blood escapes your skin.
You must catch the threads
before they begin unraveling.
The knots you’ve tied to your fingers
which you held so dearly for days
Turned into dewy spiderwebs
in a calm, moonlit night.
The smell of the reaper’s blade is back
and it’s searing your soul.
You pricked your finger once again
so that you will be forced to let go.
The pain made you remember that
sooner or later these strings would decay.
You’ll be left alone once again,
Making knots to cut and healing hands to prick.
We are souls clad in similar bodies;
We are branches of the same tree.
Amidst this pile of futile eyeballs that drowned us,
We grew up, wrapped in each other’s arms.
But we were incapable of bearing fruit.
We are of no use to the reaper.
I fear that soon we’ll be uprooted and damned.
Is this what you really want?
However, if we were thoroughly useless,
why are we still here?
Wouldn’t it be easier if the reaper
Had severed our roots a long time ago?
Then again, isn’t our love most selfless of all?
We yield nothing and yet we thrived.
Is this why we haven’t perished yet?
But can our love alone suffice our very existence?