#2: Incidents
Temptation, hesitation, actualization: Aurelio S. Alvero’s Incidents provides a short depiction of a common scene in the modern-day romance. The narrator shows admiration for another character in the story, but has doubts when it comes to making moves on her—
If I should dare, You’d angry be, If I should not, How cowardly!
He later solves his inner conflict by just ending it in the best way he knew how:
And so while thoughts Went to and fro, I kissed – and solved The matter so.
He said in the beginning of the poem that one soft kiss meant joy complete, so this may be the reason why he stopped letting his thoughts get in the way. Should he dare? he asked himself, wondering if even the gods could resist such tempting wine. The narrator’s thoughts were beginning to get in the way, so he went ahead and kissed his love interest.
I relate to the narrator because I know that thoughts sometimes begin to overcomplicate situations or relationships that don’t need any dramatizing or overthinking. There are times that we need to act instead of think, because our thoughts sometimes tend to cloud our perception and cause us to misinterpret things. There are some things that we need to take just for its face value because not everything has deeper meaning! Aurelio S. Alvero conveyed the indecision due to overthinking in four stanzas, and while the poem is short, I believe that many are able to relate to it. Sometimes, the best thing to do is just do it.
Below, I’d like to share a piece I wrote entitled Butterflies. Its creation was inspired by a certain long-haired boy and is meant to be performed as a spoken word piece.
Just a thought: why are butterflies bad omens when it comes to the dead visiting, but they’re good signs when it comes to love? Either way, I’ve been seeing a lot of them lately—feeling them, too. On my skin, I feel a resounding panic; the voices of my elders eating away at the back of my mind, telling me that someone’s come to visit, and I wonder: “who could it be this time?” But in my stomach, though, I know exactly who it is—I feel the flutter of the wings brushing against the cages of my ribs and the hull of my skull... light-headed, light-hearted, I can feel them beating a rhythm that’s starting to sound like your name.
So, when did the caterpillar begin to crawl? Did it begin to tingle my skin when you first walked in, the smell of smoke and the heat of sun trailing behind your careful steps? When did the caterpillar start? Did it start with the part when your smile changed the beat of my heart? Laughs over coffee and dances with just the slightest hints of alcohol between our breaths, heads and hands swinging in unison to the songs we can’t remember from the bands we’ll never forget; moments cocooning us, spinning silk around us from feet to waist to shoulders to head.
The cocoon broke through, though. And so did the spun memories and moments that made up the hold enclosing us from the reality of what was happening outside. We changed, transformed—not necessarily because we wanted to, but because we needed to... because we always do. And while at first, the flutter of the wings from the satisfaction of transformation seemed as if they meant well, the wings fluttered strong enough to break through and out of my stomach and onto my skin, changing from good omen... to bad omen.
Either way, I’ve been seeing a lot of them lately—feeling them, too. On my skin, I feel a resounding panic; the voices of my elders eating away at the back of my mind, telling me that someone’s come to visit, and I wonder: “who could it be this time?” I didn’t know... I didn’t know that it was us. That the touch, the flutter on my skin was a visit from the death of us, from what would soon become “what we used to be”; that the winged monarchs had fled the safety of my stomach and favored the exposure of my skin.
Fly free, then.
