Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Tag: motivation

getting even with madness

shadows crawling, sins go on repeating
as you scantily prop your back,
fighting cross-generational
demons.

years without Transcendence
or pure self destruction,
cut out from the fast and easy
perishing---

do you find yourself now
so needlessly harsh,
morbidly crass;
so stubbornly brash?

would opening your skull,
and peeking in to
snap these tense cords
bring you final release?

mute screams, muffled
between inner ears
reverberate and
seep---

until we are nothing
but knots over knots:

finding ourselves
in a messy string.

But hey now---
hey now, hey now:

If we are so Lucky
as to
Carry On Living...

Remember,
Grit your teeth!
trace the harder
route to Release---

Follow the timeless Patrons
of Form and Patience,

And all the while,
.
.
.

Rage.

Plan with fervor;
Desist; Trample if you must---

but Do---
not try but do,

Toss
until chaos
becomes Peace.

Contemplation: A Midnight Night Storm

The rain has been persistent throughout this night. It is a bit past midnight, and woken up by the whirring phone that warned of a possible flood, I am urged to stay up and wait for this tumultuous deluge abate into anonymity, so that the mind can finally quit thinking out loud.


The nature of the thunderstorm was not felt until I looked out to the balcony to rescue our potted majestic palm, which had been tipped over by the fierce wind, and was laying miserably on its side, with its branches awkwardly stuck into the balcony fence.

"My poor friend..." I lamented as I ushered myself outside the door.

Almost immediately, the reality of nature struck, as my pants and T-shirt quickly began soaking up the rain droplets being blown sideways past the illusionary comfort of having a roof. Wet garments feel thinner than when they were dry and warm, and the wearer gets reminded of how divorced we as a species truly are, when a little wetness and rain seem to become an ordeal.

I scurry back to the apartment with the palm, feeling its weight compounded by all of the water its soil drank up during the three hours it had been left in the downpour. Maybe it was no coincidence: I needed to get up from my purposeless slumber to ensure the comfort and survival of our botanical companion.

The various drizzling sounds of precipitation, with automobiles occasionally traversing in its midst downstairs, coupled with intermittent lightning strikes and their delayed, distant rumbling---there is something nearly otherworldly about the rain. It dresses our surroundings with a mystical skin that which speaks a variety of stand-alone languages: clarity, release,  even a grimy ruggedness, and more (depending on one's experience).

As a human creature departed from nature, I was(am) an lizstomanic, so I put on my pair of budget noise-cancelling headphones: a tune from seemingly another era comes up unexpectedly, and I am rushed into a special place, delivered there by a simple, much taken granted for ritual.

It is the strangest feeling: when personal melodic favorites that defined previous periods of one's life re-emerge in the distinguished present---he/she is temporarily dropped in an altered state, in which most of the old sentiments associated with the those near forgotten songs come rushing to the forefront of his/her senses, and it is so vivid that one could begin to fantasize, and maybe fear, if time and reality had rewound itself to a point in the unraveled, perhaps unravished past, or even more incredible, if the present reality was even real at all. What if, instead, we actually all unknowingly dwell within some simulated dream-like realm fabricated by our consciousness that had long ago been laid to sleep, perhaps forcibly locked away, shut tight behind a set of heavy, cold doors? What if---our True Awakening would produce a Light so Bright, that it'd tip the universe at its present state off its balance, and blind all of those who are too acquainted with both the Dark and Light..? 

Ugh, but really, who has ample practical time to ponder elaborately on such thoughts?

I beckon it'd be better to live and sift through the pieces as they come. So long as one remembers to simply.listen.

You might pleasantly surprise yourself with an set of tunes so personally ancient that upon hearing such, a mystical picture of that instant of yourself, now barely recognizable, is freshly painted before your mind's eye. Old song, old Self---but listen and feel closer, and allow New Interpretations and Realities to manifest, albeit they are many folds more difficult to procure than their once bone and flesh counterparts from that foggy, distant Past...

Still, Do try, partner! Like a slap happy Western Adventurer, striving on, against the lasting barrenness and with ever dogged Optimism and Faith, seeking to rekindle those porcels of Gold: prized Jubilance and Humanity, that which were hollowed out by Time and Fate, while the conscious of old became suspended in a day-by-day, week-by-week, and years-to-decades daze.

By this, look from outside your self-possessed veil, and acknowledge your hidden oppression, to which you had unwillingly handed your consent: to bear and its shroud of shoulder bending, neck snapping weight. Feel the pain and weariness, and acknowledge them. Then brew them all into a nice cup of rolling Storm, and let it rain down with a thunderous deluge, stirring you to wakefulness from your induced Sleep.

Look! Your Majestic Palm has been blown side ways, flailing in helplessness! Who does it have, but the full attention of your present Wakefulness?

 

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.

 

 

4 A.M.

Early dawn birds remain unawakened;
night-prawl creatures resigned to slumber—

your Eyes are afraid
to shut themselves,

Lest you cease to
Stay Alive.

it certainly isn’t true, but
it’s nice to pinch ourselves
a little harder now and then,

and to Imagine
all of One’s Life glorified
in a single,
Victorious Instant.

For Our Soft Wrists and Brittle Faces

How cruelly did Youth
Dare us to dream so frivolously,
That every burger we flipped,
Every broom we pushed—
Every petty tip waged to our once
Or still hungry pockets,

Dimmed our Brilliance into
Barely containable and feigned
Smiles, veiled behind which lay
Heaps of deferred aspirations?

And are We so hypnotized to confide
In this modern, fast-forward dreaming,
That the weight of Hammer
and Chisel became too much to bear,
Too much of  a nuisance,
Unwilling burden
For our unwieldy wrists?

Or is it simply too much a shame
For our extensively kept faces?

.

Long ago, in a pre-man age
Championed by the gods and creators
Who lived under cosmic rifts and divides,

Among them, a tiny yet miraculous notion
Was suddenly conceived—
Like the cataclysm bringing forth
An all new Philosophy and Faith—

A race of thinking, civilized, even
Highly intellectual beings
Whose core conviction sang: 

“We are born to Dream,
To Work, and Sweat
Not as obligated labor,
But as Our birthright 
To keep our too often wandering
Souls Pure and Intact!”

.

We now sit in wonder,

“Who were They?
A People who proclaimed themselves
Through endless Shame
And its complementary Glory,
Mankind? ”

 

Something to Look Forward to

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Spring is surely a most wonderous time of the year, but it is not a cliché comprised of magical healing, nor does it promise total restoration of all that’s wrong with ourselves and the world around us. One could stand amidst sceneries breath-takingly beautiful, and still be haunted by inner shadows convincing him/herself that nothing is alright, that there has been too much wrong for glimpses of hope to realize into change or mending actions. However, if one chooses to see in symbols, drawing connections between observed physicality and metaphysical connotations, then a natural phenomenon like The Spring has much to offer: look at the Dandelion, never planted with intention, even conventionally seen as a pest, a weed that besmirches the neatness of civilized gardens; yet without any positive expectations, they flourish nearly everywhere, scattering on the sidewalks, swaying underneath interstate speedways, and sprouting in the middle church yards (as shown in photograph)—embodying bundles of wishes, waiting for the eventual breeze make them come true. Now think of us, how similar some of our lives may resemble that of the Dandelion—outwardly without deliberate meaning: we don’t know why we are here, or what is expected us on a grand scheme. We are scattered upon our Earth to germinate all over the place like the Dandelions. But does this  mean we ought not to bloom like them and erect our individual bouquets of dreams and ideals out of the soil beneath? Should we do so regardless of how undesirable or lost we think we are? The Dandelions do…then as their not overly distant relatives on this Earth, could we learn to live more as they do? Make a sincere wish for yourselves this year, and send its silky winged seeds sky-bound—may it germinate and sprout into existence when Spring returns again. 

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.

 

 

 

A Butterfly Effect

in capturing these blossoms gracefully—she does not know it yet, but a step towards abolishing imprisoning motifs—ones that dictated nothing pretty would ever come out of her fingers and palms, had already taken place, carved deep and sturdy into the clockworks of Fate

Verging on Oasis

does the journey across the sand dunes appear much more sacred, and far less futile, when a glimpse of the green pastures comes in view?

In Transition

While in transit, do most of us get lost in stagnation,
Stopping at red lights that in no way, shape, or form 
Apply to our causes?

And for those who flutter onward—
Is it Conviction, Sense of Direction, or simply
Unmeditated,  gutsy bravery that might
Soon fall empty?

Regardless, the majority of us
Need, in body and spirit,
Those who fearlessly
Venture past the main stops,
Not accepting what was Fated,
Or planned by others’ hands.