I had saved millions
But no, never call me hero
Because it was thoughts I saved
I had let them be miserably safe in the castle
When they should’ve been battle-scarred
In this war ground of words
Fighting for their death
So they could be buried deeply
Into their reader
I think I save her
I drown her to death
as my vase holds her in the company of the gallant water
before I can understand
that this single she cut from her garden
has abandoned her jubilant existence
and has been slave to the one who pleases me
by killing the beautiful
A what could’ve been. A what if. A had I. These are some of the greatest tortures that could creep into one’s thoughts. These highlight the unforgiving inevitability of facing pathways, two, three, ten, numbers unimaginable, and the harsh reality of having to choose only one among thousands of possibilities, of risks and odds, of promises. These reflect how a mind is torn between raindrops. This mind could only ponder over roads not taken, flavors that shall remain a mystery forever.
Sometimes, one could be stupid enough to be stuck in these questions, incessantly wondering how everything could have been different, better. Worse, one has the tendency to forever wallow in deep despondency, worrying about the unalterable past, neglecting the dynamic present and everything in it, destroying the wonderful what can.
But one cannot fully be blamed. In nature, man will always seek answers even if the answers cannot be sought. Man will always question existence, humanity, and those of his own. Man will never be satisfied. He would always be frustrated with the way life does not divulge each and every cause and effect. Yet he recognizes it is not human to know everything and not regret. It is divinity.
But whether it is human or divine to be knowing, the strongest argument remains unrebutted: It is hard to let go of the idea of letting go. Of things left undone. Of things left behind.