Rings of Smoke

I have caught myself many times making stories in my head of the origin of those I see.  Chasing characters that passed my car window, that man smoking his cigarette on the bike lost in thought, that child aimlessly walking about with torn clothes and no shoes to protect from the heat that radiates from the road. They all seem like characters with back stories, one with his childhood in the making spent on roads making circles in the wind, one ready to go home to a family he cannot please while slowly smoking his life away. Don’t get me wrong, my characters do not divulge from streets or empty roads, but they formulate from every conversation I have, every individual with a heart, and a story worth telling.

Humans were born for greatness, a kind of superiority we claim at birth, because we were entrusted with the biggest gift, the authority to think for ourselves, to be able to differentiate between choices and pick the right one, always the right one. This act of thinking also forces upon us the sad truth that the biggest flaw in the machinery of a human, is his thought process. It ranges from civility, from human instinct to the instinct of an animal, to be brutal, to not only those present in the arena, but to be able to self destruct completely. We were born that way, to be able to conclude our entire world in one swift motion and then weep at our broken pieces in remorse.

They say wars kill men. I believe hope kills us all. We’re in a darkness and caught in despair when a net of hope catches us, engulfs us. When that hope dies, from deep inside that little hole, we catch a glimpse of a shadow of death, the death of emotion standing in the corner biting its nails, waiting, patiently for its slow end. How ungrateful of man to mistake the light in his heart to be failing, to believe that an obscurity has overtaken  his being and there is no one here to save him.

From my humble observation of individuals, I believe we are all somewhere in between, the journey of our life to the destination, just like a child making rings in the air, barefoot in the heat, unaware of our torn clothes and unaware of what we may be missing out on. Our aimlessness is what drives us, it is our liberty in that moment to be whoever we ever wanted to be with absolutely no plans whatsoever on how we may get there. That is our hope and denial all wrapped up in a thought bubble preserving our dreams and keeping us safe from becoming the man smoking away his life because he is too afraid to go home. The child’s helplessness does not bother him, his inabilities and flaws are bare and open for the world to see, but the man? He is like you and I on a daily basis. Insecure, composed, complex, unable to be justified by an onlookers eyes. He is a mystery, you may not know his inhibitions even if you spoke to him, because he was taught that the world is cruel and people bargain happiness for ambition.

This is not the world that we chose, these are not the people we wanted to be. All of us, part of a race to maybe be up close with the divinity of winning, becoming robots in the making, treating emotion and love as a forlorn forced upon us, to play with, to ditch when its purpose no longer fulfills us. Chaining ourselves to society’s pressure to trade it for higher buildings and material wealth, never to preserve the idea of good and the natural instinct to empathize, like folklore of a time gone by.  A wish that blows in the wind reminding us of the people we were meant to be, but we chose not to because the world thrives on stability and different is deemed appalling and hope, is nothing but a word, while failure is mighty and always in reach. It is the ease with which we regret our misgivings and blame the problems of the world on the ones we feel were ready to hold it together.

The burden of the world lies on all our shoulders combined, we are witness to the fact that the light overshadows the darkness around us, each and every single day. And yet we go on, wanting to conquer the tangible universe around us without conquering that one particle within reach, our very own soul. Let not the hope, kill you, let it reinvent you. Break the shell and emerge, the world needs more heroes; we fall short because we’re waiting for someone else to take the role. It will not be easy, but it will be your only salvation and you will come out of it alive and free.

“There is a war that makes us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.”
Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things


The Art of Living

Do you know what happens when you light a match and don’t use it? It lights the fire, oh yes, it creates a spark just before the flame, but when you just hold it, not utilizing it, not letting the light engulf something else, the fire? It burns out.
That’s how people are like, that’s how relationships are. You hold on to the fire too long, testing it, teasing it, watching it dance as it creates shadows all around, but eventually, that fire is going to burn out on its own.
I don’t know if I’ve figured out life in all these twenty-two years on earth, there’s a lot yet to figure out, a long way to go, I know.
I’ve seen a lot of pain, a lot of happiness, a lot of deception and a lot of deceit, yet an idealist inside me holds a torch to the idea, that people sometimes find a way to surprise you. In their weakest hours, in their most hurtful of phases, when they hit rock bottom the outer shell cracks, revealing what’s inside. In one’s own vulnerability lies the mere essence of their being. What you say and what you think when you’re that low below, is the only truth in your world, provided you embrace it.
Your life is made up of stepping-stones, there is no final destination, it’s all just from and to, there lies no real plan, if it’s a game, you’ll win either way.
You will win pain, you will win interminable laughter, you will win ecstatic outbursts, you will win love and then, if you’re lucky enough, you will win the loss of that love. All these, just stepping-stones, none of them take you back, they all take you forward. That’s the kind of world we are meant for. Imperfection and flaws, all original in their own aspect, sent down to learn the art of living, of surviving and living yet again.
In a perfect world, we would be sent down to laugh, to stay toddlers, running around in meadows, unaware, innocent. Without knowledge of war, of misery, of freedom and of happiness.
Can you imagine living in a perfect world? Do you want to? Doesn’t it seem absurd that perfection is so imperfect in substance, and scars and wounds hold beauty like nothing else, for they give credit to, for they give justice to and because they make you understand the idea of life being worth it all at the end of it.


So dream your dreams, hold on to hope and when you tire out, crash. It’s called for. You were not created to be flawless, not created to be unbroken, you were created to fall, crash and burn, to get back up again, to grow even when your roots feel too heavy to let go of. Blossom with the idea, that you were made to live.

When you light a match, it sparkles, just before the flame lights, there is a beautiful color of blue and red, that hues in undertones before the fire stands magnificently, ready to burn. Ready to empower.
All that burns, eventually turns to dust, but remember to be magnificent when you burn so bright, for that is the only way to live.

“I believe the universe wants to be noticed. I think the universe is improbably biased toward the consciousness, that it rewards intelligence in part because the universe enjoys its elegance being observed. And who am I, living in the middle of history, to tell the universe that it-or my observation of it-is temporary?”
The Fault in our Stars
-John Green