The spirit of things. We do not see things as mere objects of practicality and utility. We also see them as something of sentimental value. Our sense of sentimentality evades our conscious thought. We are not usually aware that we put spirit into things. Apparently enough, we do it to seemingly everything we own. Hau is the New Zealanders term for the spirit of things. In everything we have lives a spirit. And if such spirit of a thing is not reciprocated, an ominous consequence befalls a man who did not reciprocate. It is a spirit that reminds you to give in return when you are given something. An odd, though interesting belief that circumnavigates our materialistic nature. We do not only value things because of the thing itself, but also because of the sense of sentiment we attach to it.

I don’t know what came in to me to start with such informative trivia in my entry today. It may seem that I no longer have any material to talk about tonight. The incipient of my entry tonight vindicates how humdrum my day today is. The perfunctory life I live has taken its toll on my lifeless mind. I could no longer feel the twitches inside my hollow head. The clang I hear every time I knock on it is replaced with a bang of rigidity. My imagination has been limited within the walls outside the box I have so long ago struggled to escape. I was once contented with the scenery I am immersed with when I was within the box of staleness (forgive the with’s recurring mention). But as I noticed how little there was such scenery offered, I felt I have to break away. Destroy the corners with which I have so long been living around. People always say to you to think outside the box without them knowing what is actually outside of it. As I severed the chains that has been locked around my wrist and started to take peeps of the brighter outside world, I noticed how little different it was although bigger. I reckoned it useless. Sometimes, we put so much blame on the box we were incarcerated that we often tend to forget how limitless our imagination is. We deem it subservient to the things around us. Contrary to normal belief, our imagination goes beyond what we can sense, what we can see, and what box we were in. The moment we think of it as dependent on the box we are in is the same moment that we have refused our imagination from augmenting. Being in a box does not say what the size of the box is. We don’t have to be outside of it to be able to look at things at another perspective.

The box! Inside my box floats a crooning moon; desolate and gloomy. The gelid climate of my rowdy room lulls me to the realm of sleep, but I have to will myself to keep me awake. A potty crowing of roosters, complaining about the coldness of the wind outside collaborating with the disturbing beat of an unknowingly desperate singer. Perhaps the rooster crowed in response to the ear-busting scream of a maudlin drunkard, bellowing oddly to request to that drunk singer to cease its tuneless whining.

I have left this entry pending, and it is only this welcoming morning that I got to get back on it. When I woke up, the morning was silent, probably still asleep since everything is shrouded in a chilly embrace. The sky today is gray, but the mood it set is not of despondence. Upon waking up, the first thing that came to my mind is a thought of motion: the queer, instantaneous smile simultaneously with the sparkling of her eyes. A thought I want to linger but is difficult to maintain. For if I would maintain it, makes me suffer from this deep emptiness. An abyss where when I look down, I see nothing but a pitch black of insurmountable void where even the silence reverberates its soundless voice; only she can light it up. And upon looking up, I see a blinding light; only she can dim it down for she is the digger of this abyss.

As the light of morning slowly becoming brighter and brighter, the silence of today embraced by the chill of anticipation also slowly disappears as the streets become laden with busyness. A burdened clarity: the morning will never be as quiescent as it was before. There is only a breath of window where you feel the calming nature of the morning, and even that time the populace is still within the phlegmatic universe of possibilities, floating uncontrollably around the current-less ocean of fantastical consciousness. Wherefore then do we compromise the beauteous welcome of the morning for us with something we forget when we take our fifth step? Dreams are awe-inspiring, but it is during when we are awake that we get to live these dreams, we get to live these pesky lives, burdens and all. There is no greater escape in life than not escaping it. The handcuffs that are trapping our hands contain in them the lock entry for the key that can un-cuff it. Don’t let dreams be dreams! Mornings such as these, are but in paucity and its stay but a hair’s breadth of time. Savor the moment like the frolic chirps of birds singing in chorus to the beauty of morning.

I’m going to be wearing my Artwork shirt today. If you come to look at it in the perspective of an observer, you see it only as an ordinary shirt; commonplace, aesthetically functional, and airy. But within my perspective and hers, we see it as something symbolically significant. The hau of our bought shirts will continually linger like the mornings after dawns. I’m looking forward to her wearing it. =]