indedom @alviedo - Tumblr Blog

permission to hate

These days I’m mostly fine. I no longer dwell so much on the events of the past 6 months. Truly, I don’t need to, because even without trying, how things unfolded has changed me in ways beyond my control. I wish I could go back to the person that I was before all of this drama – full of hope, faith, and even piety. But those things have come undone along with everything that was building up…

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a memory in three parts (2/3)

The quiet town was alone that night. Trains to and from Paris arrived without any news except my soul that fled, hovered above the ground, to a familiar nook in the now-empty residence halls. It may have been in France, could be on Earth, perhaps a parallel world, or one in my dream, where I waited for you none of it mattered.

We were exiles. Chaotic reality did not want anything to do with us – its only…

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#a memory in three parts #alt lit #literature #lost love #love #poem #poetry #rejectscorner #spilled ink #young love

a ghost's promise

a ghost’s promise

This promise is a bird I am caging in my bones. I am denying it the freedom to soar over heights bound to exhaust its determination. Promises are the most fragile of birds to ever roam the Earth. Breathing wordwings bringing them to life, they leap off our lips, flying too far and fast for us to not forget their colour nor their shape when we held them captive. Promises too are such wondrous creatures in…

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Ready to love

I think back on how we met: the casual indifference with which I showed my interest in you, the surprise at finding it reciprocated, the uncertain terrain of figuring out the kind of person that you are (you were so mysterious, equal parts angel and rebel, reminiscent of my best and worst encounters), the wonder at realising that you aren’t like anyone I’ve met before (this time it’s true). At…

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Journal entry: 10 Feb 2019

Some days there is nothing to be done in particular, no one to meet nor talk to, no item on the task list to be completed. In many ways these days are empty, and palpably so. I try to read books, listen to podcasts (on our Catholic faith – very edifying), go on the yoga mat. But still there is a resounding void. At the back of my mind I’m thinking of –, waiting for him and wondering about him. I…

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Thoughts on the end

Seven hours left to the year. If not for that knowledge, this day is really just like any other day. I am in a cafe – Starbucks, always a convenient choice – with my work laptop in which I was doing a bit of work before I started writing this. Also on this little round table: Dorothy Day’s The Long Loneliness and Edith Stein’s Essays on Women, whose pages I’m airing to dry after I neglected to…

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Brother

I remember how my brother tried to stop me from going. Behind my locked door, I had tried to drown out the loud bass of his voice with the even louder alto of mine. I cannot recall now the things he said – if they even registered in my mind at all, nor the things I said, for that matter. I only remember that at some point I turned my doorknob open and he came in, and I hit him, and he let me,…

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Campus Green Poem (reprise)

A different vantage point: at eye-level, thirty degrees to the left, one hundred metres away. Still: behind misty glass windows on a grey wet afternoon. Four years on: evidently I have not gone far enough How lightly we tread this road of life, how slowly sometimes especially in grey wet afternoons like this, watching people saunter by, obstruct one’s view of the campus grounds: ever so profound,…

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#poetry #rejectscorner #spilled ink #writing

On being a teacher

Doubts plague my mind. I truly wonder if I am cut out for this. And anyway, how did I get here? How did I become a teacher? Can I even call myself a teacher? These days I feel that I am way out of my league. I once prided myself in having a perspicacious mind, one that is able to comprehend complex problem, one that is so linguistically and intellectually adept at grasping and articulating…

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Grandmother

Part I (I hope) I pray as I write this that the right words would come to me. Or out of me. (I wrote the other day – words come to me from everywhere; but lately they find it hard to escape the cages of my ribs; the blackhole in my chest) So I pray. Let me be able to write about you – You who have held me before these cages fully formed. I don’t remember it: but I have faith – how can I not?…

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block(ed) head

I realised that refusing to write anything and blaming it on the state of the world today is downright absurd, an outright lie, and screaming of arrogance. To pretend that one is too bogged down by wars, famine, poverty and all the other ramifications of capitalism to write one coherent sentence is claiming disproportionate levels of sensitivity that no real and honest writer would ever claim.…

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Why I stopped writing

The pen is supposed to be mightier than the sword. But wars have long been fought with weapons far more powerful. Whose destructive capacity reaches farther and wider. And knows no border. And reaches further, and deeper. And so how do I begin? This explanation / excuse. This apology? (And mostly to myself.) This incoherent spew of words struggling to even resemble what I should be ashamed to…

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