I laid siege to the empire of myself to haul my heart away from the throne of lies which years of exogenous depravity armored and bid the hideous sun to shine dead inside.
I burnt alive to rekindle the truth of the looped mask.
‘Tis not love of liquid gold; for this ancient fire is not capable of such devotion.
‘Tis not love of pious monger, but a massacre in infernally divine hunger.
This haunting craving is the wailing monster, the archfiend who clawed my consciousness in behest of warning me against the silent storm of the reasons blinded by veils enslaving desires.
The wretched one wished alone to remind me of all which I am not, and it took his perseverance along with the lower octave of a household’s tutelage to bring about the executioner to the exalted post upon which the gods of the underworld bled their might in sacrosanct horror as their passionate tears calcinated the world from above.
‘Tis destruction, the benison of a lofty power – death made into form.
“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.
“¡Sí se puede!”
I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.
Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.
Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.
Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.
Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.
I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder — Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.
Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.
With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.
I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.
Kaheri, although my blood, I marvel at all she needs to discover. This young woman is in pain, and she knows not how to use it or overcome it. She will not aid the improvement of her condition consciously, for she is far too lost in the crevices of reversed light and doctrine. Kaheri is young, in both body and soul. She may portray a harsh and loud exterior, but such assertion only hides the real her. Kaheri of my bloodline has still many tears to shed. This crude expression of a being in a suit of flesh mourns still her mother’s death, a bleeding and poisoned wound far too recent. Kaheri, the elder, is perturbed, and with a reason.
I became cognizant one afternoon, a considerable amount of days or weeks before the news of the deceased. I sat at the table as I consumed my lunch when I heard through a phone call that the woman who birthed Kaheri would have to undergo surgery. I neither saw nor felt but knew with a certain conviction about the impending earthly departure. I knew that neither Kaheri nor we would ever embrace our troubled beloved sick as a fellow human being as the mortal repose would not have mercy on her.
According to what we gathered, specially after the sudden and forced trip to Cuba, our troubled beloved felt her strength waning, but never did she speak of the severity of her unwellness. She was taken to the hospital where she was cut open at the say of a doctor for the extraction of her vesicle without running tests to verify the source of the soon to be dead’s malady. In sooth, Kaheri’s mother had, for a long time, incubated Hepatitis B which was passed onto her by her idiotic husband who failed to follow his check-ups to observe and treat the condition and even ever mention that he was a bearer of the virus.
The removal of our troubled beloved sick’s vesicle was undoubtably unnecessary. This reckless operation only weakened her immune system and vampirised her life. Due to a negligence, Kaheri is now orphan of mother —a morose cup weeping upon a bleak tomb, demanding that her life giver answer why she left when her child needed her most. Due to a negligence, we wet our cheeks with salted grief as there was still a spark of life in the dead’s eyes.
Affected by the bereavement of someone who loved me strong and kissed my eyelids at any chance she had, I am also one to comprehend that the dead are only dead in flesh, placed on a different plane of existence that humans carelessly disregard out of fear or ignorance. People may concern themselves with the condition of a fellow being, but they, we, from our innermost, only grieve out of a selfish sentiment. We desire what is lost when it is too late to retrieve it. We will remember our troubled beloved, but one must not journey through life stirring the bile of suffering. The deceased should be celebrated instead of hauled down by sorrow. I, for once, decided to remember the newly departed with a smile as it is imperative to practice the making of wonders blossoming out of gloom. Kaheri, on the other hand, has a harder path, wandering the youth-besotted labyrinths of her mind as she learns to heal and find inner peace. The old child has been taught the ways of detriment. She, like many, is unable to grasp beyond the thresholds of physicality. Untrained in much that is even herself, Kaheri must voyage her being to know how to will a change within herself with the mere intention of provoking one. One can only observe and offer a hand if she truly desires it.