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Posts Tagged ‘comfort’

All room’s full tonight

for restless thoughts,

will you make another?

Something resides too long

without paying any rent

unwilling to go. I try

 

to push the windows

shut from the memory

of the altar. Forgiveness

is the name knocking

at my door, I would not

let it in, at a price.

 

You know, it’s hard

to clean up the mess

of those nightly visitors.

Thinking about comfort

and the high maintenance

of keeping life in order.

 

Welcome.

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It get tangled in a way that it tightens

around my feet. The threads gripping

possessively over the need to cover

the parts that are constantly moving.

You say, I’d better be protected at all times.

And yes, I had been so, for years

and I can’t bear the thought that I would

in my deathbed  never wandered away afoot.

 

Today, it get tangled even more.

How I might need somebody’s hand

to untangle the orderly mess I am in.

How I might desperately need

to run away from the familiar things

 

I need to loosen up. Shaking off

from the strappy refuge I am

wearing each day- such monotony

that cloaks in itself comfort

which in fact doubles as a cage.

Freeing the feet that needs the feel

of earth, at last.

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People may need. Two different things:

A warm blanket on a winter night.

A cold water on a summer day.

That was easy.

But the book says otherwise

that people need three,

actually.  A companion.

And this, I can’t hardly achieve

without a sacrifice.

 

Lukewarm

 

in a room I shared with another.

Living thing.  My search for warmth

is in its dying. My search for coldness

is also in its dying.

 

So I wake up

each early morning turning off

this machine-sucking

life of the other.  In the comfort

of my own breathing.

 

Hoping that the easiness

will boil down

into two different things:

People may need.

While warming winter.

And cooling summer.

Without you.

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I have tried everything I was taught

to do. Trying to fit in the world

by becoming someone who,

I am not. An everyman.

What’s going on? How tragic

is this shallow happiness

becoming emptiness, seeking

where is the enlightenment?

 

Punch me hard to bleed.

Hit me more. Be harsh to me

like a nihilist. Obliterate

my every apprehensions.

 

Pull me away from this reality,

sheltered in my comfort zone.

Stripped me off with this fear of pain.

I need another revolution.

 

Break down this prison walls

closing me in. Out of this

sanity’s edge,  I will escape

my disillusions and never return.

 

Wake me up from my deep slumber.

Punch me hard to bleed. Real hard.
If survival means believing 

that I have to die, to gain.  

I will not pursue my defense now.

I will surrender to your every blow.

I will lie here half-dead in bloodbath,

the glory of my sweet liberation.

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I hug my bag closer,

seeking comfort of a mother

wondering why,

in the midst of strangers, 

seated in a row,

seeing life as hard

as the wooden table.

 

I dread writing,

clutching each force,

engraving the words 

to a fragile memory wall

of that tiny classroom,

I cannot understand.

 

I wish I could go home

content, isolated from distraction.

And wait for a mother

to teach me the alphabet

unhurriedly without

pressure.

 

Even then, no one

would know

that I can’t speak,

that I can’t read

like others can.

But I see signals

from a mother’s hand.

 

For my language is different.

Since sound and words

were lost the day I was born.

And a mother would

only understand

why.

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I skipped my regular routine attending church services in the morning that Friday.  A week ago, I have already informed our pastor that I plan to attend the Industrial Area church service instead in the evening.  I also missed out our church choir practice that night, which I am so sad about. 

We braved the dusty road leading to Industrial Area. When we have arrived at the place, it was a regular accommodation building intended for company workers.  The road leading to the building is quite notorious with potholes and mountain of construction debris on the side.   We reach the worship place after winding up seven staircases worth of our stamina, of climbing the steps. The place of worship is located in the rooftop.  About 24 sq.m. approximately, capable of seating around 20 people, right there along with the clothesline of wet laundry left out to dry.

The truth is, I am not expecting it.  Of all places, to hold a church service.  A rooftop towering over other rooftops of factory buildings in the midst of desert wind and the usual darkness of the evening.  I am used to attending house of worship with the comfort of sheltering oneself against the external elements, such as rain, heat and dry wind.  That night is a wake up call.  Believers are called upon to honor the Sabbath, wherever, whenever and whatever it takes.  Be it under the shade of the tree, or under the canopy of the bridge, or an open field. 

I am deeply humbled by the fact that here in the wide stretch of the desert, away from the comforts of the homeland, people who are disciplined in faith, are braving the routinary grind of their overseas life, partially isolated to the urban centers.   This is mission’s work,  a life dedicated to the cause of bringing the Gospel to the far reaches of places.  Administering the continuous flow of the message and strengthening people’s faith in God.

I admire my pastor, who is a missionary himself, for the kind of passion he have for the lost  souls and bringing them all to Christian faith.   His silent ways are a steady yet constant reminder that complacency has no place in Christian service.  Believers are ought to steer clear of their comfort zones, sacrificing time and effort for building up Christ’s work and taking upon each the individual God’s calling in putting into action all the Christian training they have learned.

I admire my friend Grace, who chose to become a full-time missionary, while administering translation of the gospel to the native tounges of the tribes among the hinterlands of Mindanao and Luzon back home.  She already had the chance to go to India, for some introductory mission’s work as part of her trainings.

Sometimes, it is a pity, when I hear myself, complaining about being so tired to get up early in the morning to begin my morning prayers.  Sometimes, it is a pity, when I see myself, scrambling over reading best-sellers in the night rather than having a bible reading of a chapter or two. Now it occured to me, that what I am doing for the kingdom is not enough.  Christian life calls for able and willing men of faith to stand up and do the work.  Whatever the circumstances may be or a situation they are in. 

The next time, I will go to the Industrial Area to have my Friday church service there.  I need to listen to what God is saying to me, visually.

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What if I finally embark on a mission to indigenous lands? How can I accept their way of life? Will I accept their culture as superior than I have born with and satisfied with? Will I ever change my way of life and draw some inspiration and become like them-unwary of the stress of the modern life, which to them is unknown?

What if  I am old enough to witness the First Quarter Storm, would I become a community organizer? Would I then be able to stand up for the right of the masses during those dictatorial times or I would rather clam up under the weight of fear and apathy? Would I be willing to be put into prison, or die in a firing squad like a martyr and become one of those missing persons that until now that their whereabouts cannot be found?

What if I become a priest? Can I be able to resist the temptation to marry and forever become celibate?  Would I be able to help others to know God better and make some positive impacts on their spiritual life?

What if I become a social worker? How could I keep the orphans, the old men and women and the widows from seeing life as still beautiful brimming with hope without them thinking of their circumstances? Would I be able to bear not to cry when I am so emotionally attached to their sentiments, their anguish and their fears?

What if I become a nurse or a doctor? How could I be able to be numb on seeing death everyday?  How could I try not to think of pain?  How could I not try to think about the families who lost their loved ones to sickness or a tragic accident? How could I not sleep enduring the hours spent caring and hoping for the  patients would ever live for one more day?

There are just so many individuals whose life are exemplary. Those who are still living or have departed from this world, whose life they have given unselfishly to the best that they can without thinking about personal gain or fame.  They have lived an uncommon life away from their comfort zones. 

The nameless and faceless strangers whom we might meet across the street. Or your neighbor. Or a friend.  We never know, until we came closer seeing their true light. These are the breed of people who dedicated themselves for a cause of uplifting humanity.  The kind of people who is not afraid of being different and dared to be what they are destined to be.

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