I believe this has been overdue; but nonetheless, this is still considered as an entry. I’d like to think of my write-ups as a testimony; not as a confession of anything not worthwhile, but an expression of the beauty and divinely organized poesy of nature. The subject and object of my queer ideation has always been nature itself. I mean, why look for anywhere else when anywhere else is right where you are right now? The things that can elicit unique peregrinations are only found in nature.

Let me avow this for this entry: I’d be making this entry quite crude and easily comprehensible. It has never been my primary intent to make people understand the things I type here; I want them to think deep, delve into an abysmal pit of imagination. I want them to utilize the faculties that they, we are gifted with. It is a privileged to be the only specie on earth to be able to imagine the things that has not yet unfolded or will never unfold realistically. I’d like to think of it that way. No other, and I mean no other is capable of such; and by having that singular distinction of being the only specie able to think in terms of intangibility, not using it to our heart’s content defeats the purpose of being a quality distinct to us. What’s given to us, we must use. The law of use and misuse by Charles Darwin may evoke a slight nudge of fear; that when we do not use or not constantly use that of which is inherent in us, there might be a possibility that it might go down the drain.

While I was sitting on a fringed ledge in the morning, and as I was contemplating on the beauteous, simple yet inconspicuous poetry of nature, I happen to notice that even as trees grow on the inclined sides of clambering mountains, they still emerge erect. I noticed no one tree heeds meekly towards the inclination of the mountain sides. They fight the force of which every man has been archetypally plagued by: gravity. They fight so they may announce to everybody else that they, amidst the trials and tribulations, can still manage to adroitly manifest their will to go on. If humans be that way; look beyond the plight of wretchedness and look at these tribulations within the context of temporariness. Life is a flux of regularity, one that is too obvious that even the blank stare of apathetic eyes will notice. Cliché: “What comes up must come down!” If we hold strongly to that tenet, and not put ourselves in a singular distinction of being the only person bombarded with seemingly insurmountable odds, we might be able to get out a much better person.

Back to these underrated trees. They sway carelessly. They go with the blow of the mountain breeze. Their leaves, the striving and the dead, rustle as the mild breeze of the morning sweeps indiscriminately. The melody as the leaves of diversified trees graze each other is but music to a tone-deaf. Nature plays a melody even the deaf can hear; I included. And atop the branches, which grow at a glance in wild randomness, are little birds that chirp exuberantly and in revelry towards the liberation with which they were so bestowed inherently upon. One bird that caught my captivated and awed eyes is a bird clothed in bland black and white plume. Its downside is perpetually white, whilst atop it, the plume that protects in from the heat of the vengeful sun is blindly black. Even though the dualistic nature of its feather and color arrangement, it is not without a purpose. Nature does not fabricate something useless; it may be out of necessity or out of compulsory. We too are gifted with the capacity to ideate and imagine that of which is not yet tangible. Tangentially, the trees too are gifted with the rigidity and strength to go against the force of gravity just to reach the canopy of where sunrays are of abundance. Everything is of a reason, which at our current faculties of reason yet knows. Everything has a purpose; the works of a divine entity? I cannot prove or disprove. As of this current still moment in time (still as when I am writing I tend to corral myself away from the pressure of time-conformity), I am still indebted to the iota of inspiration nature has emanated silently, though loudly. Listen to what nature has to sing, look what nature has to offer, its eccentricities are all too common and salient for us to remain destitute and oblivious. They are there! We are tasked with, given the weapon of boundless imagination, to decode what nature has been esoterically showing. We are, as nature concludes, a part of it.

Look beyond the surface! Look below the mirrored and reflecting façade, it shows you nothing but a vague misrepresentation of yourself. There is more to nature than what is ignored. Sleep is also nature’s presage that we are in dire need of solemnity. Once in a while, we have to recuperate that of which we have lost when we were mechanical. Sleep is automatic. In an instant after now I would be heeding the call of the somnolent hums of the aggressive goddess of sleep. But the little lenient time given to me before I enter into the dark realm of quasi-death, I’ll be thinking of you. Not to be a satiety towards an insatiable desire of closeness, but as a temporary remedy of impatient waiting. How can one satisfy something insatiable? You can’t. What can satisfy your whimsical wishes but the object of those whimsical wishes itself. I hope even within the universe where real is what is intangible and what is bona fide is everything imaginable; I get to be with you. Dreams come true! They really do. For how else could you explain the happenings of recent unfolding if they don’t? We’ll be where we truly be; right where we are right now. =]