Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Tag: change

A Breath of Change

*** A bit of a Update ***

After having sat on the idea of this initiative for many months, I’ve finally taken a step towards associating my work platform with a less pretentious and ridiculous label, renaming it from the former name of “Vermis Meridiem” to “Heres Estrella,” the latter of which having a much closer tie to my Name, “Heres Pang” (you are free to make whatever assumption about my circumstances and physical attributes from this name alone—but I hope it ultimately does not interfere with your reception of my written works themselves, which are magnitudes more critical than how I intend to be or am actually perceived).

From everything said above, the only notion I am trying to convey here is that, from this point on, I am going to take greater care, time, and effort towards managing more serious output, the kind that I hope to snowball into collections of material that can exert greater reach over you, portions of our society, and beyond.

Again, I hope.

(One can only Hope, Inshallah).

As for you, the Dear Individual reading along this very line, I wish for you to have greater success over finding your own place in our world. And by this I mean not overindulging in the idea that you (or me, or anyone else) is more special, privileged, or distinguished relative to anyone else, but instead realizing more and more with practice and time,  that our species is driven towards the greatest of its feats of marvel under the internalization of a broader fact:

Each of US is no more or less than a very necessary brush stroke on a grand, cohesive canvas—the picture painted on which would be rendered less complete if any of You and I remained unawakened to our delegated, interdependent roles.

(In short, a little less being in the center of attention, and a little more playing our position. In a good and cosmic way, that is).

*** End of Update ***

It has been a long and testing Winter, and even in its closure, the Coldness seeps into this late-on-arrival Spring. Things are certainly changing, so let’s not sit out the impetuous wave this time.

 

—Gather Ye Flowers While Ye May, my Kin.

 

Best Wishes,
Heres Pang.

 

 

American Gothic: Part 2

Work

 

“I can change,
I can change,
  I can change—

If it helps you 

to Fall in Love.”

 

 

Pilgrimage Song of Abolishing

Deeds of the fathers, grand fathers,
and countless fallen aspects
of the passed on elders—
Trickle down into your Being;

you the Reincarnate,
guided vicariously by Karmic arms,
inevitably let your feet doused,
bathing in Ancient Sins.

.
Chewing on the recycled fruits,
Are you on many-a-days,
helplessly gazing down the Abyss
of recurrent,  unsurmountable defeat? 
.

OH! PRECIOUS SAPLING:
how little do you know—
Reborn and Embodied in You
lives a New Divinity?
Your seed carefully Sown
by Hands Eternal, and Blessed evermore in Passion?

.
How could you then
dare to contort effortlessly
into Another Effigy
along the Ancestral line of
Old Misdeeds!

Fight! Fight— 
Fight with all of Your Might!
Abolish the curse of age and history;
Your Spirit mint and radiant,
Defiant against festered creeds
.
.

Sins of the fathers,
rusty chains of shame
surely shall to repeat:

Sons and Daughters in the Living,
fulfill not once more
a destructive prophecy—
Conquer the Self, endlessly;
let the cyclic fouls be
Vanquished at your feet.

 

 

 

American Gothic

or what's left of it anyway

                                              or what’s left of it anyway

Late New Beginnings

Fireworks
Up
In Air,

Exuberantly
Succinct,
Leaving one
Dazed, staring glassy-eyed
Into weightless fumes.

The many aggregates
Of last year
And those
Of the many years
Before it
Linger on—

Into yet
Another
Set of days—

New year, Same you;
Can’t have Enough
Unfinished—

Nothing but
Rusty
Old chains.

But love,
Do
Feel different,
For destined
We are
To Hope
And to make Believe:

With the Advent
Of this New Year,
Our slates 
Are once more
Rendered  Pristine.

Man On The Corner

“Like a monkey on your back

You need it

But do you love it enough 

To leave it” 

Backtracking

Paying a visit to particular, neglected artifacts, you couldn’t help but to have noticed a person behind their marks of past usage—prints from a younger pair of hands.

After having been away for ages, remnants of another time was refreshing, yet you couldn’t have help but to have felt thoroughly estranged at their sights.

They are comprised of words, methods, and thoughts of an entirely separate man, someone once at the dawn of his making—energized, humorous, and light-heartedly sarcastic—ambivalent of his future endeavors yet managed to enjoy that lack of clarity with ease.

As you sifted through the pages and retraced the steps that, at the time being taken, seemed inconsequential—curtains were drawn and the illusion set in, history regained vitality, and you began sensing the former vigor filling your present network of veins.

And so drastically different was this old essence—in fact, so rejuvenating and bright and untamed it felt—that you were overcome and rendered irretrievably deplorable by it: this blood has become foreign.

That certain green air which you once carried, no longer suited so nicely as your natural skin—as they were.

As frequently as you enforce (reassuringly) upon yourself the notion that age has left you unscathed, in the face of solid, tangible vestiges of a fresher man—who has been left behind in between the old pages—you are helplessly, helpless, for they hold firm and irrefutable proof that, you too, have inevitably aged.

 

.

.

.

 

**Comic Relief:

 

“fuck.

 

agh…UGH. 

 

—whatever.”

Safe Distance Greeting

You know of a person—a friend of a friend.

In fact, you are on friendly terms with a particular family: a household of two, husband and wife, each of whom you share a friendship with; the two friendships are separate but equal.

You are not sure which one of the two you are closer to, but that is not the point; you have not socialized with these early-thirty lovebirds for almost 3 years; by now they’d be mid-thirty birds of the kind unknown to you.

You like to imagine (and hope) that their once apparent affection for one another has not waned.

It is not a long brewing grudge that bore itself out of conflicts, instead, it just is. “What happened? Life happened.” That’s one way of explaining it, in what “they” say (do people really say that?).

A few weeks ago, in a public space that hosts extensive foot traffic, you recognized the back of the husband a few feet ahead of your steps on the sidewalk.

His particular build: broad shoulders on a 5’10, stocky torso; the larger size of his head; the black, dull shimmer of his mid-length hair. It was him with his unmistakeable gait—clumsy, but relaxed, yet heavy.

Right there and then, you abruptly tuned down your pace; it’s been too long and you were too tired to go through the typical jabber of the catching-up talk. You have come to realize that people are better off catching up while engaged in less talkative activities, or at least you have learned that you are better off that way, personally. So you made no plans to catch up, physically nor personally.

It’s like the phone call that progressively gets more intolerable to make; so you eventually wind up not making it at all.

But this was different—you knew sure as hell that your presence couldn’t make a difference in their lives. You are not the saint whose words are divine. And they certainly do not require help from you in any shape, way, or form.

Then again, who knows, you could have been the tiny cog in the great clock work of the grand scheme of things that made all the difference to them. You decide to not think about that.

There was something new and peculiar about the picture: aside him, holding onto his left hand, was a little person. She waddled with a funny sway, taking two extra steps for every step the giant next to her took.

She wore the a magenta raincoat that sharply contrasted his dark navy, more form fitting sweater. Maybe it’s the attire, or it could simply be the power of innocence and youth—shining pure and exuberant juxtaposed to anything.

Three years and they were already a family of three: with a new person you had never seen before. It’s shocking because it felt as if you fast-forwarded, past the parts where she was pregnant and her daughter was born and how she went from being bald, crawling on all fours to standing upright, almost half a whole person.

You followed them a short distance, keeping just enough of a gap so you could blend in with the other pedestrians.

Something made the little one turn her head. She looked back and she landed her eyes on you.

You smile and wave, subtly mischievous so she’d find it humorous—so she could trust this stranger she had never met once in her life.

Her face giggled without making a sound. She turned back around; her hair shone just like her dad’s, but it was smooth, silky, and long—must have come from the mother.

Out of curiosity, as they ambled on, she would turn around to look again and again, and each time you made a different face to entertain her.

You wanted her to trust you, to portray yourself as an adult who wasn’t so full of intent and lies and sharp corners.

After a short while, the Dad began to notice the difference in his Daughter’s behavior. She turned all the while holding on to his hand, and every time stopping briefly then managing to catch up again by clinching harder onto his big, powerful hand. To her, it was a lever of security.

“What are you looking at?” The father asked, look down on her, but not back at you.

Before she had time to point and explain, you quickly turned to your back, and proceeded in the opposite direction.

You hastened your steps, walking in between and in front of every other person you passed on the street, so the Dad would give up on identifying the back figure of the stranger who was quickly melting into the background.

You escaped without having to confront him; you felt strange, isolated, but all the more relieved.

This was your catch-up greeting, a silent and half facetious hello to the little one.