I could write I guess, but credits go to those who make me feel enough
to be able to do so.

You just wonder about the unerring sense of it all. Most of us are
looking for a place to belong. Somewhere where we matter and where our
existence counts.

It's funny how it all clicks into place one day. The geek gets it all.
When the woman wants a man of substance and realizes how superficial all
of the run around is. When she's has gotten so hurt and mangled she's
learned about life and the unmitigated thorn forest it is. She finally
gets it. Looks at you with kinder eyes. Listens to what you have to say
and finds out that she's in touch with what you have to say and how you
view life. What holds value. Of permanence and love that quakes the
earth. Of truth and of souls. Of the need to dispense with the masks and
know.

Finally in the geeks arms. Then in his bespectacled glory he thinks. Yes
finally. Then looks again at the mangled soul beside him and shakes his
head. Why? Why can't the choosing be when it could be a positive
discovery while emerging from the shell of innocence. Love amongst the
ashes, amid the lake of tears and despair. Still love. A shake of the
head and a hidden tear. Yes finally after all.

Got a call a couple of minutes back. The conversation was good; better
than what we had the last few months. Yes it was a bit disorienting but
it was a moment too, of moving past crossroads. I was happy for her
really. My erstwhile good buddy gal pal hug mate turned girlfriend and
then ex was leaving the country. Tying the knot too. Surprising how
things turn so quickly when you're not looking. The break-up to be frank
was one of the tattered kind, like a blanket shot full of holes. So I am
happy for her, regardless of her reasons. The land of milk and honey may
just be what she needs, to just let her free soul rest a bit.

Wishing you all the best Litton. My heart always has a space for you,
however we ended up. I am sorry for any hurt I may have caused. See you
again someday I guess.

There are roads. Then there are roads. The journey begins regardless.
Ends as well. Although we do not really know whether it is either, we
can be sure it isn't neither. There is always something afoot and
something which is invariably bigger than us. Why? So we do not really
get to become so jaded maybe. That we get to keep that which makes us
human. Able to nod at the sunrise and say, "Yes. There is hope. Maybe
we'll make it through." This after facing your ghosts of whatever past
and present. To finally duel and grapple with them, to find the courage
to tangle and fight to overcome. To wait with bated breath for the
sunset. To win and leave all the ghosts in the dark to forever wander,
unable the find the road to your heart and allowing you to let go of
your hate.

There is wailing and loss as a door closes and dear one departs. You
find it hard to believe. To hope. To look life in the eye and scream,
"Do your worst". Give it time. It will heal whether you want it to or
not. Then a new dawn arises and you start to smile again, shaking your
head softly, remembering the time when you told yourself you cannot go
on anymore.

What is triumph without the despair of a crushing defeat? What is gain
without the sting of loss? What use is finding courage without the
presence of abject fear? What comfort is love without the blood curdling
venom of hate?

What would finding you mean, if I had not gone through the world and
back, whispering your name in every stranger's ear?

There is one such, but not to be found in maps. It is the aggregate of
all stones thrown in screaming spots and all those thrown with
overwrought blinding emotion. It may sit around four to five people
comfortably or may conveniently accommodate one wailing individual
draped across it. No maps, yet sort of like the Room of Requirement in
the tales told by J.K. Rowling.

The appearance is willed based on need. At times it may be just yourself
or there may be some folks with you. You never hear them though although
you see them and may touch; you never see their lips, and never hear
what they say. Only your eyes give a hint of the stones you yourself may
carry for touch is a nonexistent sense as well. There you are like ships
passing in the night, there yet not in the same time.

I came back from the stone of lamentation just a while back. I was there
alone which was maybe a good thing. My mind knew as I traced the soft
obsidian, my tears were there within, my hate, my longing and my fears.
Everything was in gray scale which was befitting I think, since it's
never black and white anyway. Not when you're an adult. it was all
there. Six billion worth of pain and suffering and that's is just the
now. I believe I wailed. Screamed and tore myself inside out. Does it
feel better now? No. I feel drained and empty though. Until my heart
starts beating again. Which started minutes ago.

-Matt-

Then you wake up. To a sullen, sulking angel. Still beside you. Yet
fraught with turbulence and emotions. Calm on the outside, choking her
underneath the surface. Then the words come out and she starts to pour
her heart out steadily building in intensity. You know it's coming. You
know the words. You feel it arriving and you know it's going to be one
painful and whacked ride. You know it because most of it is the truth.
Except for the truth that you will be there in the end. How can you say
that? How? When the deck is stacked against you. Everyone in the
universe says so.

You realize then. After all of this, you still are alone. With her, yes.
Ultimately alone. It ends there, where it started. The chasm you look at
more imposing now than it ever was. You try to box yourself up and weep
inside. The hand that touches you is there, yet the souls are miles
apart. There is no solace, as you have no one with you really. No one
stands by you. No one trusts you. No one willing enough to try. The one
that does, does so with a lot of trepidation. What else can you do
anyway? You can't expect it. You can expect not being trusted though.
You tell yourself I'll make everyday count. I will work on it, and make
the moments matter. I will be there. You try to choke your fear too. The
angel's turbulence might drive her away before the day of deliverance
does arrive.

The sad thing about it is - You kept being told there is no way you
could stay. Even when you do. But you can't say "Will you stay?".

So the days and the winding roads brings the little rabbit here. Mostly
of its own making. The fates are not to be called in as a party now.
Maybe not ever. It looks at its hands and smell blood. The blood of
dreams and the marrow of the future. Broken. Beyond recognition. The
dance ends. Without a bow. Maimed and hurt, crawling to the outside. On
to unlit highways. Cold asphalt and speeding tires with headlights
unattached.

Hit. Thrown. Torn asunder. Bleeding. Broken. Laughing. Sobbing. Blood
stricken face. Tears? Or stigmata? Does it matter? No. Should it? No.
Again. To crawl. To hope. To seek. Lights flash. High beam. Low beam.
High beam. Low beam. Close your eyes and smile. As the Eurythmics croon,
"Here comes the rain again". Impact. Sailing. Airborne. Launched. The
crash. rebounding on the ground. A pebble rippling on the surface of the
water. Skipping. Skidding. The body on cold black asphalt. Marionette.
Pinocchio. Writhes. On strings.

A smile. A tear. A spot on the road. Skid marks. High beam. Low beam.
Impact.

Cycles unending. Pain unimaginable. Endured. So stand up again. Little
rabbit. Hold it up high.What is it? A light? flashlight? "Yes" it says.
"I am the lighthouse". Impact. Like a pebble rippling on the surface of
the water. Twitching finally. Yet not giving up the spark of life.
Comfort. A blanket? Cloth? No. The smell of newly minted paper. The
rabbit tries to shrug it off and stand. In vain. Then gaining strength.

Impact. Speeding tires with headlights unattached.

There is a whine of a small motor's introduction to life. A series of
electrical sounds, a whirl, the sound of disc plates rotating. A single
short buzz. We have a reboot.

So I look around and hey, it's barely a week to the day I got shot out
of a cannon and borne into the planet. Two weeks until Christmas. Three
until a new Happy New Year. Bend over and take it up the gazoo wilya?



Here's the Lowdown:

• No Thanks. I know, I know. I ought to be thankful right? Bite me.


• So there are children hungry somewhere. Welcome to the club.


• There are those who are in some sort of crisis/crises. Again,
  welcome to the club.
  
  


• There are people who lost everything. Hahaha! Grand slam!
  
  


• There are people who died. So hey take me already!
  
  

Tailspin. Slowly worsening.On all conceivable fronts. I know I am
excellent in these times, somehow I lack the will. It is there, I just
need to dig deep and find my reasons.I don't want to be saved or need to
be saved. I would have to find my reasons and my truths. Like I did
before. No blame and no worries. I still remember to breathe. I was
right in thinking I was about to do a hard reset on my life. But this
was done on completely different foundations.

Much to my surprise, there was someone who stepped in today. Against the
tide and against all and sundry. This was 2005. In reverse. Now I am at
the receiving end. Funny how life takes you places you thought you knew
already. I write this mainly for you. To say thank you and to show my
appreciation. Although we both know it is I who saves myself, the
thought is most precious now. I wanted to remain quiet and let this pass
like all else when these things happen. I believed I was mostly to blame
anyway. With the amount of half brained nitwits in the world anyway, you
ought to blame yourself if you were smarter. However, I would like you
to not worry about it and extend my gratitude. As I always say, you did
not have to. But you did. It takes a lot to stop and do that. So to
clarify, here is where I stand even if I do not look the part as of the
moment -

Enough with fear. Done with hesitance. Through with insecurities and the
uncertainty of tomorrows. If it is to be then it shall be. So let life
throw its biggest waves and strongest winds. Let the world get torn
asunder. I will be me. I will live my life. And I will be happy.

I am Michael Andrew Martin. Bard. Poet. Corporate Whore. By no means am
I eye candy. By no means am I wealthy. By no means am I powerful. Yet. I
am worth the ride and well worth the wait. I am worth every damn second
you give me, and then some more. I am worth the waking days and worth
finding within reach on shared nights. I am worth every step of the
journey should we decide to undertake it. I am unlike anyone you ever
knew or thought you knew. I am worth sharing your life with. I am Me.

Ivy is on her deathbed and Matt - well Matt is lost. Lost his soul rather.
There's an inscription etched in the red soil at Mt. Carmel that is
slowly fading as the rains wash it away and a figure walks to his car:

"Always the dreamer, always the diversion.
Always within reach yet always discarded.
The worst thing for anyone in any lifetime. Matt De Leon."


Afternoon At Where It Leads To You
by M.A. Martin

I got lost and somehow, I got found
driving in an overcast morning in the pouring rain
saw myself standing - on soaked ground
wishing I can hold this pain

Eighteen steps to the fenced off door
Twenty two acts before I'm rid of it all. Bereft.
I walk away, my back to you and forever more
the beat a fading echo. As I have left,


my heart, my soul, my dreams complete.
On the curb that leads to your street.

sway thee not borne out of lock
steadfast, though you be
far removed from your flock
for on whose account do you appear
but your own
dispossed of anyone dear
stout of heart you solitary soul
till the time your eyes
be forcibly closed
on stone be etched
"he lived his life whole"

gratitude for streets dimmed with fog
neon bursting to hues
I've neither hearth nor log
silence a tomb imbues -
my life of solitude
welcome o joyous mirth
but not on my doorstep
on the day of birth
devoid of chatter
this abode of mine
I have all but none which matter
conversing with a bottle of wine