Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Tag: memories

The Dying Cicadas

The Cicadas are Singing
Louder and Louder;
But no one sees them—
Invisible messengers they are,
Hiding behind leaves.

Their songs are ringing
Even more urgent now,
As their time is near—
Another conclusion of the year.

Can you hear?
In the echoing of these
Seemingly inexhaustible,
Dying Cicadas,
Distant yet vivid memories,
Of our Season
Soon-to-be-gone.

And are we, always unwary,
Startled, even a little—
To have come without a Choice,
To Seal
Another irretrievable Summer
Into just blurry dreams?

Advent

Of something
Fresh and rare—

Eager like the
Playful
Spring Breeze,

Blowing
Your loose
Lettuce

up,
Up,

and       awaaayy—

An enigmatic
Encounter,

So New
and
Ancient

Once again.

A Quiet Afternoon

I stood, and waited, in silence--as the nearby youths played--I took deep breaths that drew no sounds. Later that day, I sat and enjoyed a piece of flan. It was a good day.

I stood, and waited, in silence–as the nearby youths played in their spring-time zest–I took deep breaths that drew no sounds. Later that day, I sat and enjoyed a piece of flan. It was a good day. 

Back to Black

under a sprightly green umbrella

                                        under a sprightly green umbrella

Trying to Remember

Remembering October

along with the daylight savings relief, also came sobering realization: it'll never be October 2016, again.

Along with the daylight saving’s relief, also came a sobering realization: it’ll never be October 2016, again.

Windowsill On which We Live.

 a new life in the same jar

                                              a new life in the same jar

Microcosm

shared between two

                                                  shared between two

Conversations: The Framed Portrait

“Is that…a picture of Hannah?” Looking at the picture, framed and airbrushed—all too formal for its intended purpose, whatever it might have been—you felt uneasy.

“Yeah, man.” He replied in a-matter-of-fact way.

“That’s interesting…hmm, *hmmphh—–hahaha…..oh gosh, Bryan” there was something about the portrait, enclosed by a wooden frame, that struck you as hilariously bizarre.

“What, is it not okay for me to have a picture of my girlfriend?” He joked, impersonating the shrilling tone of a stereotypical prick; however, he was obviously annoyed.

.

Your girlfriend. I’d imagine she’s more than that. 

.

You threw a more probing humor at him, “So, what’s this, some kinda trophy? Like a proud declaration saying, ‘Oh YES, I’ve got her. Yep, kept my eyes ON the PRIZE…Now she’s all MINE.’ Does that kinda-sorta represent the mentality behind this gesture?”

Whenever you decide to interrogate someone, to avoid being socially unacceptable, you always present your questioning in a nasty, comedic manner. In this case, you did your best to furnish your line with Le American Southern Twang (momentously lyrical and intoxicatingly addictive of an accent to listen to and practice with).

“Whatever. Look, this is what people do when they are in serious relationships.”

“Really? I thought that’s what people do when their daughters graduate from high school and leave the nest for a couple of years. You know, the glamour shot; close-up portrait and stuff like that; for glorified remembrance.”

“You are over thinking it, _______(place name here). It’s just a picture, like I have framed photos of my family.”

“Well hey, you do whatever. I just really hope you are not trying to make her into a sister of some sort. That’d be crazier than all of my previous suspicions” you chuckled.

Bryan looked at you, in an irritated disdain, “Fuck you, _______.”

.

Christ, what a compulsive liar. Bryan, you and your self-righteous justifications—you lying, cheating fucktard. 

 

 

 

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.”