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MidnightRainfall
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Name: Hija de Miranda
Interests:
Christianity, music, writing, nature (forests, mountains, deserts, valleys... all of it), road trips, philosophy, psychology, spirituality, astronomy, history, guitar, reading, biology, analyzing works, idealism, poetry, the oceans, piano, environmentalism, the promotion of social justice, Eastern religions (Buddhism, Daoism, Jainism, etc), cultures and regions around the world, rain, journeys of self-enlightenment, knowledge seeking, activism, body modification, mysticism, exploring new locations alone, observing life forms, landscape photography, snow, open and empty spaces, nighttime, and anything enigmatic and/or elusive. There are more. I gain interests too often. :)
In existence lies everything and nothing.
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  resonantambience
Member Since:
2/13/2005
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| I wonder what he's thinking as he looks off into the grey sky. Reclined in his seat, in some distant mental land, his face contorts slightly with each new thought surfacing. The rain stains the large window; the coffee is in close reach. His brain moves into the clouds, elevating with reveries that come and go, remaining in the strange world where only thoughts go. His white hair peaks shyly out of his cap in clumps, hugging his sun-damaged skin. With every pang of lightening, his eyes widen a few millimeters, an action invisible to the unobservant eye.
He puts his head down in resignation and covers the smells, sounds, and sights that seep in. His arms serve as silent protectors that keep all stimuli out. He knows he cannot escape the world-- it is entering through every one of his senses, and he loathes this at times. Still, these few moments of feigned escape are precious to his well-being. He needs to delude himself into believing reality will stay outside the doors of his mind whenever need be.
Every morning, he wakes up to a desolate house and walks across the creaking hallway to the bathroom. He notices the scars that have faded through the years in his murky mirror, but remains fascinated by their salience. They never seem to truly fade, only decide upon subtlety. Toothpaste on toothbrush, a shower of water comes from above. Half an hour passes. His breakfast, which has always consisted of oatmeal and a tall glass of no-pulp orange juice, is consumed. A scan of the daily headlines and politics occurs approximately at ten fifty-five, and the sprinklers come on a little before noon. A chair placed strategically in the backyard is visited by our guest shortly thereafter, and a counting of the flowers is in store. Twenty-three. He counts them backwards to make sure none were ruined overnight. Twenty-three. That's one less than yesterday.
In the evening, he pours himself a glass of Merlot, and sits in silence at his kitchen table. Ever since the death, he hadn't the need to drink for pleasure, only for comfort. His eyes gaze forward while some silent prayers are muttered, ones of redemption and forgiveness. His prayers, he reminds himself nightly, aren't directed at anyone -- or thing -- in particular, just whatever force may have some kind of power over his life-- if any. By ten, he is on his third glass, and stumbles into his bedroom, barely finding the cold, stiff pillow for his throbbing neck to rest on. He tosses and turns throughout the night, and wakes up sometime before dawn to witness the light overtake his lonesome room. "Another day," he whispers, as he fades away into a thick slumber once again.
And so he lives consistently in this fashion. Weeks pass, months, and, before he knows it, years have drained away his charm until only a droplet of the fountain seems to remain. Quiet desperation has taken his heart hostage, and doesn't appear ready to submit until his ultimate descent. It's sucking all of the life out of him. I need to help him; I wish I knew what to say. A chill flows through my veins as I dawn upon the realization that there is nothing I can say. The seeds have been planted; the snow has melted.
I cannot help it, I must speak.
Remember me, I attempt to transmit. Please, remember me.
His eyelids flutter violently, his heart rate quickens. He awakens short of breath and arises in haste. "W-what?" he manages to get out as he attempts to compose himself once more. The time is eight-thirty in the morning. I've frightened him, worried him-- another failed attempt. I want to remind him that there is something that drives him to carry on day after day, and that something needs to be focused on. How does an individual who has lost all hope even allow himself the chance to think of solutions? It's futile. The doors are shut.The flowers are disappearing rapidly. He is in a race with time and time sprints towards the finish line. He is falling behind, but I cannot watch. I just--
Just love all things. Please don't let go of that.
A smile begins to form in his struggle to regain himself, a smile he will never become consciously aware of committing. But I saw it. His face transforms to that of a child, as the wrinkles soften with every moment. His rigidness seeps away, and warmth is restoring rapidly to his cheeks. He falls asleep a few minutes later. I gaze in eternal confusion. What has happened? What have I done? Have I helped or did I ultimately make things worse? It has been unwise of me to try and intervene. My time of attempted assistance has come to an end. I watch him sleep for the last time, his face relaxed like that of a resting newborn. In hesitation, I make my way out -- for good.
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"February 23rd, 1983 - 3:10PM
I have no idea what life could have left in store for me at my age. Walking is becoming a pain, my sight is nearly gone, and I couldn't hear a gunshot if it were occurring a block away. But I had a dream last week, and in that dream, my wife of fifty-two years appeared to me and whispered something. It sounds unreal when I think about it, but I know in my heart she was contacting me. I don't remember her words, but they were comforting. She reminded me of myself and what I am put on this planet to do: love all things.
I feel right where I belong. I feel right.
I plan to walk to Jose's house next door tonight and reacquaint myself with him. He hasn't heard from me in years, and connecting with people, bringing some kind of joy or momentary bliss to their lives, is what I plan to spend the rest of my short time here doing. Hope this visit goes well. All I need is love to go on from here. Wish me well." | | |
| The smoke billows towards the towers by the sea, leaving the city-dwellers gazing into the horizon with wariness and wonder. To them, the source of the murky sky is a minor nuisance at best, and a confusing distraction at worst. The loud hum of cars cuts through the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, leaking its noise pollution to the untamed wilderness that lies in unrest beyond the worn pavement. Each driver is burrowed in their home-on-wheels, changing tracks and radio stations, pausing occasionally at nostalgic sounds that permeate their ears.
Thirty miles east, a herd of mule deer are running away from the sense of impending danger. The smoke rings a familiar alarm, and many separate from their families, lost, trapped, surrounded by the raging, natural process. Some mule deer find refuge in remote canyons, seemingly in safety, while others are not so lucky. Elders, scrub oaks, and manzanitas burst into rapid flame, stripping the peaks bare of their lush clothing, and gutting the canyons of their old-growth sanctuaries.
A tear makes its mark known on her cheek. Her gaze remains fixed on the mountain range in the distance. Without a single blink, she begins to nod slowly. Surely she understands the cycle that all life clings to, the beauty of the circle; however, she had formed an undeniable attachment to these visions of heavens-- these "plantations of God", as Emerson had once put it. Many days were spent in retreat where the ashes now congregate, and where the animals dwell in unison no more. Many days where enlightenment knocked on her thick door, where she was gifted with the opportunity to mesh with Her once more. Many days, oh many days, did she cry and rejoice alone, in agony and in passion, surrounded only by the pine trees and the sage plants. She remembered the radiant moon that illuminated the sky on one of her night escapades, staining the boughs with a dim, ominous glow that awakened a drive deep inside of her. She wouldn't forget the precious solitude. She wouldn't forget the bounty of the forest.
As you remind me of your cycle of life and death, I bid you a momentary farewell. You are not gone. You are in a transitional state again, as you always have been and always will be, she thinks.
Still, her attachment to the place that once was never completely diminished, nor did the longing for the ability to spend only one more hour by the waterfall she honored. In all honesty, no home felt more rewarding or authentic than the endless canyons that she had once so gratefully wed.
You are right, my daughter. I have not departed. A different stage of my cycle has begun. Remember:
I hold the keys for construction,
and a hefty handful of the end.
I have a tendency for destruction,
but the ability to mend.
And amidst the tears, a smile begins to form.
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| It is a deep yearning, a stinging pain, an endlessly growing fear, a paranoia that eats away at me. But there is the uncontainable vision of something new lying ahead, and that vision somehow manages to bag all the negativity up and transform it into a courage I've never experienced before. What lies ahead? Where is this path I'm paving leading to? I'm trying so hard to get rid of one of my greatest problems: indecision.
It is time to create a road, and stop idling because many paths seem equally as fulfilling. It is time to pave a new path that integrates as many of the other paths as possible. It is time to stop cowering from the future. I'm terrified. I'm so beyond terrified, and always push these thoughts away because they lead to anxiety. As I write this, actually, anxiety is attempting to take over me. This is big for me; this is huge. It is time to decide.
After that, it will be time to advance with all my strength in the direction I will have decided to go. The next few months of my life will, unless I cower to my defense mechanism of indecision again, be instrumental to all that I've been building towards. It is time to step out of the back seat, allowing impersonal and irrelevant-to-me goals of others drive me. I must take the wheel, and I must take it with passion. I will shiver, I will cry, I will be ridden with anxiety and fear, but at least I will have the wheel in my possession, in the way I should have always had it. It needs to be done, and it needs to begin now.
I will not settle for inactivity any longer. I will not settle for inactivity any longer. I will not settle for inactivity any longer. There isn't as much time as I foolishly thought there would be. Action, I embrace you. Ready, set, go. | | |
| It sounds like a disgrace to the gift of life to say, but I have come to terms with the idea of dying tomorrow. I am okay with the idea. I do not wish death upon me -- there is much I still wish to experience -- but I am okay with today being my last, if that is in store for me. I have been gifted with this ever-so-elusive and wondrous 'life': I have cursed life, considered taking [my] life, rejoiced in life, been granted the opportunity of knowing others in life, encountered so many mysteries, thus far, in life. How many of them can I honestly say I've found the answers to? Not many, if any at all. Do answers even exist to the questions I perpetually bring to conscious thought? Who knows. But searching -- my dear God, searching has been greater than discovery. The search has humbled me to the realization that I am nothing in this form. Do I know if discoveries lie somewhere? It's not relevant to my human condition. What is relevant is the fulfillment the searching, the passion to be, brings to me.
I am not writing this to state that I am done with what life has to offer. Such a statement would be a disgrace and disservice to the wonder and unabridged mystery of living. I haven't even begun my second lap, if I am gifted enough to remain alive for awhile longer. There remains endless landscape to explore, and I am humbled and deeply grateful for the opportunity to tread it. The purpose in this reflection is to reaffirm to myself that I will continue to search, to love, to worship, to breathe, to cry, to seethe, to humiliate myself, to suffer, to question, to wander.
One of my favorite quotes from the band Winds is, "Beyond the world I wandered to find a birth in my death, and at the crown of my journey, I saw dawn from far away." The more I think about this line, the more I don't know if a perceivable crown to my journey exists here on Earth... and the less it matters. In fact, the journey in its entirety may be the crown if I let it be. I am so humbled by the beauty and severity of life, so grateful to have the opportunity to explore its terrain. May each day be equivalent to a lifetime, with every dawn signifying the beginnings of existence and every sunset signifying the end. What a glorious sunrise, what radiating light--- but also, what beautiful stars await the twilight sky, and what an empowering moon shines amidst even the darkest night. | | |
| For what feels like forever now, I have been continually beaten into a mush of apathy... by none other than myself. In attempts to resurface my passionate self, I post lyrics to a song that gives me a rarely-felt motivation for, as the song puts, "my will to be". This will serve as a reminder to listen to the song that brings me a haunting conviction to live according to my ideals.
Winds - Passion's Quest
In the time of silence,
I saw a trace for my will to be.
While in the remnants of my heart,
I saw them shine through clouded eyes.
My time of silence represents, metaphorically, the extended period of apathy I've locked myself into, the lack of motivation to be productive in ways that satisfy my existence. My escape routes, detours, and road blocks I have put up for myself are all manners by which I've silenced myself. More literally, I have silenced myself by halting the one thing that gives me a sense of truly living: writing. I've been too afraid to translate my thoughts into words, because I increasingly find my words to be meager attempts to explain the storm of concepts, memories, and emotions that run through my veins. I still don't feel satisfied with writing for this very reason, but I have to live with that. There is no improvement without practice, I've come to realize.
My "will to be"-- in other words, my motivation to exist and function-- has made itself apparent again more recently, whispering ever-so-gently at my conscious and unconscious mind. A trace is all I need, but oftentimes this trace is ignored. What remains appears to be found in my 'heart', my emotional center. The imagery of clouded eyes literally causes me to shudder. I don't think I'd like to formulate words explaining why.
In the depths of the night
I reach beyond the brightest stars.
The darkness has hovered over me -- I've allowed such-- and the stars seem to become more distant the more I continue my existence lethargically. Somewhere within, there is a desire to reach beyond the "brightest stars", beyond even my fondest goals and ideals. As long as the stars can continue to be seen, there is the hope that I may reach out to the ones that shine brightly to me.
And I touch your wings with my remorse,
As I drain my fountain of spring.
My deepest reverence.
My exposed serenity.
This is perhaps the most chilling part. The thoughts conjured up by "drain[ing] my fountain of spring" bring anxiety and I must not contemplate too long on what in that statement causes my fear. I am not too afraid of aging-- it is inevitable and I accept it-- but rather, I am afraid of aging apathetically. Almost deliberately, the guitars here become frantic and disorderly. I never want to lose the everlasting wonder I have for the world, no matter how frequently or heavily it may go into hibernation. "My remorse" is directed towards God, for taking His dearest gift of life for granted.
From the depths of my boundless heart,
I pledge myself to thee.
A reaffirmation to live my life with the sense of wonder, to subtract the fear of my past and future failures, and to move forward only with a pure readiness, an authentic desire to do my work.
My days of novelty have decayed.
I find myself at the end of infinity,
I gaze to see the angels.
As grim (and ambiguous) as it may seem, I interpret this portion obscurely, in ways that both frighten me to action and leave me with a sense of positive resolution. The "days of novelty" describe the existence I've been leading. However, underneath the surface and in the few instances of written introspection, there brewed an elixir more involved, more passionately seeking, more empathetic, more curious, more, more, more. It simply wanted more -- and this needs to become my cure of choice. This needs to be manifested more strongly to myself than it has in the past. There is no way out of my lack of passion than by enduring a quest for it: passion's quest.
The "end of infinity" may be the end of what seems to have been a lifetime of apathy. The angels offer me a deliverance that needs to be realized, one that can no longer be taken for granted. There is no foreseeable end to what I've set out to do, only the continual attempt towards an existence more pure. And if I could spend the rest of my life using up all the extractable effort in me, to no avail or no result, then that is all I could ever ask for. I simply want the opportunity to try, and the passion for the journey. | | |
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