A voyage home

 
The way long and long out of sight
Bearings and light leeward lost
Darkness abounding de-fettered
Night lining out our hearts
Even in daylight plain

Resolve dissolved in blood
Dreams a-throng yet wraith-hued
Picking bones for lack of food
The hands of the gods against our fists
Lost, utterly lost in the glaucous glen

Seas gnawing at our sides
Gulls sending false omens
Winds whistling us mad
Shunning our sun-seared sails
Though offerings were made

We had memorised how to recognise
Warriors, witches, and death
The nostos inked onto our palms
The eye keened to keep the way
Lit by lunar glints atop the waves

The cool of sunset soothing the burns
Laving the day’s salts and sweat
As days unnumbered themselves
Spinning inner songs of despair
No amount of wax would seal away

Death-scorning hubris we felt
For it had shied off of us still
Though countless times met
Thwarted by elden craftsmanship
And centuries-honed skills

Until one fateful moment when
Many auguries unclouded became
Whilst the sea rent the ship a-twain
Our invisible shield of hubris
Cloven in one fell stroke

Many of us drowned
Many of us in our prime
A handful stranded a-shore
Bloodied and cut and humbled
Yet clear-visioned and resolute

Like a first-time whore strutting
Unsure of step yet gut-driven
Embracing fate more than ever
We knelt to our urns in awe
Dumbed by wonderment

We knew our Ithaka out of reach
Nost-algia clouding the breath
Like agèd wine to a sour palate
Too many shores and sunsets
Dreamt of yet memory-lost

The sweetness of the stalls’ smells
Tip-of-the-tongue forgotten
Almost, almost at last remembering
A gossamer veil we couldn’t part
Weighing more than mountains

A tiredness unheard of
Marrow-burrowing
Deeper than the spearheads
Holding the tents encamped
Where we waged war

Life was odd for we were
longing-looking for home
Yet at its very doorstep
Unreckoning uncrossing
Oblivious to the signs
-
Walked on, distraught
As if blindfolded
By some callous hand
Unwishing us home
Undeserving of the kindness

We wander the wilds still
In-transit through constellations
We know never to attain
Aware of our self-brought doom
Cursing ourselves even more.

 

Fragment #24

 
Home being an Ithaka of sorts
I find it where most stop looking
Even in the smell of rain

 

To the girl waiting under the tamarind tree

 
You could have had your elbows
propped up on the parapet
of the ferry to the kampong

You could have sighed
at the sunset faded
from the lone harbour

You could have taken a selfie
off the river Mekong
with a yūgen gaze

Yet you chose to sit shaded
chin cupped in your palms
under the tamarind tree

where you looked most beautiful

 

Redolent

 

The smell of mannered flesh
forcing itself up the nostrils,
coaxing the downbeat soul

self-hate feeling the urge
the exorbitant behoving
flatter and flout of the self

the mind battling the pulse
buckling under the pressure
finally, giving, in.

The travellers’ tales omit
the indelible stain of shame
the sense-agripping scents
forcing itself up the nose
the cheap perf cramping the guts
at the split of night
the retching too close
the hating, right there.
Every, single, second.

 

soul and bone

 
the soul thought firmly set
until love ransacked it blind
lungs, tendons, heart and all

the spirit ethered off
left but bled-out tissues
their fate the colour of mud

adamant to carve through
a paring knife, twist-gnawing
right where soul meets bone

 

Salt and ash

 
It was the last promise to be kept.

My grandparents reposed
where they had longed to be,
at last. For yes, I had tarried.

The morning sea was calm,
yet the hot air already at our throat,
cooled somewhat by the northeasterly.

The brief echo of thirty foghorns,
following long seconds of thunder,
resonated across the bay
with a harsh finality.
Those on the shore, invisible
but who later recounted hearing
the chilling call to salute and mourn,
bid their farewell, too.

Glints of tears and sweat
were quickly wiped,
though both were meant
to soothe body and soul.

The words exchanged on the boat
were perfunctory, hard as I tried.
The other words had clotted up,
lumped in the pharynx.

I was also distracted;
I was disappointed that I had
forgotten how heavy an urn was,
and the sheen of the sun
spangling on the wavecrest
caught my eye more than necessary.
They danced like dragonflies.

The urns swiftly sank out of sight.
My grandfather was with his wife,
my grandmother with her daughter,
my partner hopefully greeting them
with open arms and soft words.

I felt like the guardian of a time
of yore submerged by the seas,
a watchman over invisible ruins
whose existence only I could attest to
and point at on a map.

My word, as the last one alive and willing,
had been kept, yet the light felt heavy still,
unbearably ubiquitous and constant,
proscribing darkness also,
an offering on a propitious day.

Back on land, memories
were carried and shared,
glasses were raised,
as much to celebrate the past
with ones who mattered
but were no longer here,
as to hail in the future
of a resolute few who,
though tossed about by the waves,
had managed to keep the boat afloat
and their gaze fixed on the horizon
that we had been bequeathed.

It was the last promise to the dead.
On that day we the living,
amidst the silence of the seas,
where the sum of our love was,
dispersed yet present yet calm,

salt and ash parching our lips,
set foot on the shore to start afresh.

 

Haiku #5

 

The moon uninvited came
Smelling of daffodils, her lips sweet red wine
Swaying her hips like a lover
 

Haiku #4

 
Her gaze, her pace, honest, set
As her soul, trudging the komorebi path
Ablaze and cold as the day

 

Some days it's hard not to hate myself

 
Some days it's hard not to hate myself
The constant state of constant failure
As if I didn’t take life seriously
As if tomorrow didn’t matter

Not even a case of Carpe diem
More like a fuck-this-shit issue

And all crumbles like a house of cards
But some cards didn’t seem to have existed

“The oeuvre was flawed from the start”
Said the old ghost strutting back in his chair
With this fingertips joined, he added
“Well well well, look who’s called”

Every time getting closer to the brink
The tiredness, the heaviness of existence
The energy and motivation getting lower
The wish to unbe turning to will
Waiting for the will to turn to dedication
Like swells heaving like heavy breaths

Fighting it still, but with less bravado
The élan dead longer than I thought

I am happy for my friends’ victories
“You are, but it doesn’t right the scales”
But I have none of my own
“Only soul-crushing defeats”

Yes, I am tired of being mediocre
And when I tried hard and failed
It was said I was unlucky
“But unluck can’t last this long, can it
It has to be something else”

I just want to be left alone now
And sleep it off, sleep for a long time
Long enough that I forget I’m sleeping
“What about the good old void
That would clear everything up”

I do not need a lot more persuasion
That it would be the best, yes
The timing makes sense, too

“Perhaps I won’t have to leave, this time”
No, perhaps you won’t have to.

 

Just a game

 
Some thoughts on Life as it seems to be, for us, all things considered, just a game.

Indeed it has been likened to the most advanced video game, “invented” before any silicate component was even conceived, the Mother of all games, the Game that beats them all. Yet it is rather peculiar to see us, as a supposedly sapient species, spend most of our time doing side quests for the sole reason that we have forgotten what the main quest was. Or rather, we have forgotten that figuring out what the main quest was actually is the main objective.

Every day we speak to many NPCs. Some give us particular and important quests, some help us, some hinder us, some just dailies upon the completion of which we acquire gear and perks, while our stats progress or regress, ebb and flow. As a matter of fact, we ourselves are an NPC to someone else’s quest.

When we are born we are given a set of stats that shape our ability to move about, progress and quest. Some, more fortunate, people will inherit the perks, gear and gold of their elders, greatly enhancing their capacity to access and accrete even more resources, and level up more quickly. It is like, to them, playing the Ultimate Deluxe Edition they got for free because one of their ancestors got a lifetime pass long ago, while the rest of us are playing the base game.

There are, of course, tips and tricks handed down from generations, which one chooses to acknowledge and follow (or not) in our exploration of the open-world map. Yet as “open-world” as it may be, many of us won’t discover more than 10% of the map, and won’t even know this 10% well enough to not get lost at some point, even if we have a built-in compass for both inner and outer travels.

Deciding which way to go should be our sole prerogative, and the universe is so vast that we discover new maps every day, almost, and all of these being hundreds of light years away we cannot wait for the next upgrade to be able to teleport to them. Otherwise they shall remain out of our reach…which makes us feel cramped, even though our own map is already so very vast.

Some see a Dev’s hand, Devs’ hands or the Devil’s hand intervening in this Game. While it might be true for the larger astronomic systems, our own puny lives are ruled by RNG from the very second we spawn, and we abruptly land in medias res while the character-building aspect of our life, as crucial as it is, isn’t even in our hands, at least for a few years, until we can make our own bad decisions ourselves. Because we inherit, in secret, perks and flaws from people who played the Game, aeons ago, without knowing they were playing it.

For even though this game is on permadeath mode, we tend to play it as if we had multiple lives ahead of us. As de facto subscribers we have been offered a lot of updates, but never got any news from any Dev, or devs, nor any sales representatives.

If you push the argument just a tad further, in many respects we are playing a survivor game with tinges of horror, but it is an MMORPG really, with many genres intertwined.

Our lore goes back thousands of years, and the origin of the Game is a mystery surrounded by a recalcitrant fog of war that sometimes seems to fade, only to cover the area we thought we knew back up. We can delve and absorb in it but it is so vast and complex that we will never get the full picture. So we busy ourselves with the daily grind: work and grocery dailies, the fanciful questing in other parts of the world, occasional parties and festivals for which we buy and trade mats to craft the most sumptuous cosmetics, seeking companions to quest and ally with.

Sometimes we lose connection and the servers seem to lag and stutter, and we wonder if it’s the server or our own connection.

The Game has been going on for so long that it is no wonder we have lost the point of it, because even when we log off for the night, the Game still runs in the background, and when we log back in sometimes it feels like an entirely different Game, as if someone had hacked our account, or had plugged different variables in the matrix. Yet it is the same – and at the risk of vexing some of us, the final boss is not what they think it is.

Sometimes we feel that the Game is so crappy that we would really like to reboot and start all over again, but with different stats – or play a different Game altogether. Sometimes we get a virus and we can’t play for a bit – that’s when some of us consider leaving the Game to see if there’s another layer to it, somewhere beyond the harsh reality, or another Game altogether.

In our thirst for exploration some of us take various substances which can make us feel like we have access to the code, like we can peek behind the scenes. It is still a matter of debate.

Back in the day, when the offline connections mattered because there were no online ones, the zone chat felt pretty circular and was local, regional at best, things were going slowly and it was easy not to connect. Now the chat has extended to gargantuan proportions, and encompasses the entire world. It almost feels like the chat is the Game. We can apply filters to the zone chat to try to contain the tsunami of information, but even then we fail to distinguish between what is real, invented because the game is, well, bizarre sometimes.

It can happen that some of us are caught cheating, because even though the Game has rules, exploits and glitches abound…and sometimes the Game seems unfair to us, or it seems like too good an opportunity to pass, or some people only want to wreak havoc. The moderators and community organisers then take our gear, some of our gold, and ban us from playing for a while.

We organise ourselves in guilds in which like-minded people buzz to the same hum, echo-chambering one another, because there is nothing more reassuring than hearing your own thoughts in another, allowing one to wallow in the comfort of uniformity in claimed uniqueness. After all, we are all unique.

Final thought: for a game that has lasted this long, it is going rather well, despite the numerous negative reviews spanning all those tens of thousands of years of accumulated playtime.