Quick to judge

Slow for compassion

Unmindful of own shortcomings

Blinded by prejudice

Enslaved by hate

Ruled by faulty instinct—

Blind side is not a myth.

Is a tapestry of sky after sky in gold lining

Is our only enemy.

It is the toughest week for me as a public servant. But what’s tough isn’t my job at all, What’s tough, is my love for our people–for it is something I can never put before myself. To them, my principal, I owe my education and professional development. And I am very grateful.

In fact, I rather work for free than go against anyone. I rather be broke than put anyone at a disadvantage while my pocket flourish. To eat three-times a day at Wendy’s (with just side salads), nuts as my snack, any Tall at Starbucks in the morning, with lots of water till night—God, thank God! I’m so alive–I’m contented with that already. I don’t see myself less of anyone; nor do I see my people less of any societal standards. But I’m not against anybody doing any lucrative business. It’s just that I opted to be a public servant. I strive to be a good one everyday of my life–Just like how I strive for eloquence when I write–That if it is stupidity to work harder than hardest and be prudent, then I am one. Note that I didn’t get a medal, trophy, bus pass neither a sandwich from doing pro bono for many years. But I survived nothingness with my dignity intact–through–and–in the rich companies of my fellow poor–and it WAS my ugly truth! Oh, so ugly that I always fell behind returning likes and comments.

Yes, from going back to school, to volunteering, to exercising, to blogging (gosh!) to turning nights into days–winters into spring (at least)–I juggle it all in defiance of fate. I’m trying to make it right; and I’m not stopping . Though I have sworn duties, which make me work like a MOFO—-and yeah, I LOVE IT: I’m trying to make it right. Because, I see ugliness in all of these as opportunities to make a difference to many lives. It’s humbling. It’s beautiful.

What’s also beautiful? I love this blog too! Just as I love my blogger friends too–for this virtual wall is not wall enough to discount the warmth of those kind fellows who supported me for many years. It’s humbling too. Indeed, they’re my people too. So to them, my heart always belongs too regardless of my or their likes or even in the absence of those. They kept me company in this Digital wilderness since 2006. For that long? With this lousy me? Goodness! So I cry unabated for my shortcomings, because I know, they’re good people too.

I don’t own my heart. My people own it. They’re my strength. I don’t own my soul. My passion owns it. It’s my glory. My life is borrowed. I own nothing nor anyone in this world.

Thankfulness is a candle

Lighting another candle

And another candle–

Giving sun a rise at midnight

brighter than brightest

warm, light–but not scorching.

A masterpiece of art,

In which,

the face

Is a pristine canvass

Of day and night crescents.

Soft supple rosy pair of clouds

Envelop nose,

Embossing, illuminating

On both sides;

On all sides–

Heaven reigns inside–

–Where good thoughts

Are pink mists in cloud nine

And in moments in time, they become confetti of presents tag “To thankfulness, the new kind.”

–Where snows and precipitations

Are fallen intruders lost in commotions;

Who’d quick abandon their pry–

For the cold natured will never stand

The warmth of joy—

The very climate inside–

The royal,

Yet humbled kingdom

Of a thankful person.

The sore angry ungrateful’,

Is but a crumpled paper,

Empty, wrinkled,

Tossed by its own filthy angst–

Trashed without regard–

Didn’t even made it to can–sad!

 
 
 
 
For every flower that blooms;

For all leaves, which kiss the ground in embrace of doom;

For every ripple that is chased by sands;

For all breezes, which caress the trees and heal hard working men—

Thank you,

Wonderful life!
 
 
 
For every morning and beginnings;

For the hard days’ nights and courage to try and try and keep believing;

For every crowing rooster that pays respect to the rising of majestic Sun;

For the horizon that spreads red carpet in bluest sky, dignifying the Majesty’s going down;

Thank you,

Wonderful life!
 
 
 
For every warm food on our table, and the frozen ones in defiant of expiry in refrigerator;

For the eight glasses of water and a Tall Latte, which fuel up this tiny me all day;

For every knitting family gathering and candid photographs of my everything;

For the consensus we reached, which means meeting in between—

Thank you,

Wonderful life!
 
 
 
For every friendship that makes our challenges light–friends are burning candles in our darkest nights;

For all loves, we cherish and nurture–no matter hard the fights–and floods of cry;

For every caffeinated hello to lovers and friends that we’ll never get tired;

For all solemn bades of goodbye in kisses and hugs, and in faith of the good times—

Thank you,

Wonderful life!
 
 
 
For this world, in black and white;

For this living, in glories and strife;

For the laughters and tears, and wisdom therein lies;

For this paradise, I live;

For this hope, I sing;

For this blog, I care;

For the truth, I share–

Thank you,

Thank you,

Wonderful life!

 
 
 
 
Is it lingering at the apex
of a snowy mountain?
Is it frosting underneath the sheets
of glaciers?
Is it kissing the gray clouds while
tormenting the blue sky,
creating havoc,
leaving god of heights asking, “Why?”
 
 

Is it idling in the ocean floor
of a catatonic sea?
Is it hiding in the corals
in fi’ty shades of pink?
Is it shying like pale pearls,
. . . so hidden in bold oysters;
. . . so wanted by mistresses in red;
. . . so ignored by pickpockets
. . . all so in love with golds and silvers?
 
 

Is it up
in the bruised infinite arc?
Is it seeping the inflamed cut
of horizon uncut?
Is it among those stars
not in sight:
Sirius,
Polaris, Ain,
Vega, Deneb, Castor,
Rigel, Canopus, Altair, Alphard—where are those dancers who can make this right?
 
 

Is it in kaput,
in abyss?
Is it in the very bottom
of Elysium?
Is it just for the dead?
They’re getting flowers and candles,
the prayers and longing;
While us, alive, and we have nothing?
Why it seems so wrong to perfectly breathe and living without it? Why is it unwarranted for the heart to throb just for itself? Should Cupid and stupids be summoned for the answers?
 
 

It’s more than forty-eight hours since this painstaking search begun; why can’t missing emotion be filed at this time? This heart, though suspected of interest, is rallying in silent tears for the answers.
 
 

Is it in the corner
of dawn?
Is it at the forefront
of twilight?
Is it in rainbows’ end
so unreachable even by the fittest feet willing to climb and bend?
Is it at the far left of sun?
Is it in the closest right of moon?
Can I get there soon?

Oh no, monsoon!
 
 
 
 
Related

Where, Where, Where Is Love?
https://ainabalagtas.com/2015/01/01/where-where-where-is-it/