Street Philosopher

As words would fly through the surrounding area of the reader, converting walls to windows viewing busy urban streets a fictional table appears below the book with a checkered tabletop that of a French café. That to which nothing has been real all throughout, but the senses does see it clearly, and the noise of all the world’s story revolves throughout the establishment. The scent of African brewed coffee beans hints the renowned reputation of the place.
With nothing but a view of the book, and that of a café, conversations across different tables seem to matter. A man with his watch stares at both the time on his watch and that of a clock, holding his phone in a rushed conversation whilst taking the affection poured on his coffee for granted. Yet, nothing less of its kind would ever compromise. Time has its very essence, making it most efficient to meet his purpose, or so he believes in, the purpose of what he believes he existed for, and for whatever that would be, he doesn’t seem to have time for the rest of the world of things his purpose might have been for.
But in his virtue of dedication he is willing to forsake tact to the world as he this would in dire need for a client of another vernacular. Building a bridge with instructions not understood does take time, but not impossible.
And while his interesting persistence on time, efficiency, and purpose, the vacant seat that was not noticed moments ago in front of the table is now being occupied by that of a man. A patient being who looks at the book with no curiosity but expectation of its existence, with eyes the color left to the discretion of the reader. This man’s age is subjective, as with the color of his skin, his beard, and his vernacular.
But in which point the appearance does not matter, should not matter, as it is all within the choice of the reader to describe him. All he does is stare, and smile, leaving the reader to put down the book and look up.
But to which the reader could not, for by putting the book down, the being disappears. As he is only visible while the reader reads. And that is if the reader chooses to see him through the book.
And so he sits patiently, in him exists all the answers ever to be asked. While staring at the book, sitting patiently, his purpose, maintenance of the universe, is being taken care of. And yet he keeps silent, smiling at everything with the calm of a retired man who feels he has done his purpose, and takes it day by day.
And so, as expected, the last paragraph is now being read, and the chair is vacant again, in fact, there is no chair. The words now take images along with them, away it goes with the windows displaying the busy streets, the checkered tabletop, and the African Coffee Beans.

Obscurity

Walking through what would be considered nothing more than an envelope of fog everywhere. Directions taken would point to the same scenery, the dreaded cloud of which even the sky cannot be seen. Throughout this evening, as in every evening, walks would be considerably difficult, as after a few steps off the safety of the enclosure, nothing can be seen, even the hand in front of the face.
But in the morning, like all mornings, with the sun up to its peak time, the pathway does emerge, and the entire scenery majestic boasts its finest colors, even for the merest few hours. Trees seem friendlier at these times, as does all the botanical and animated species. These are the few hours looked forward for.
How was it possible for pathways to disappear? All the friendlier noises an hour ago suddenly raises doubts about the true disposition of the fauna on the fields as noises now brings an intense heartbeat. Trees of majesty and grandeur are now left to intimidate, if ever seen, with any luck.
How could memory fail to recognize the same pathway that did exist an hour ago? This same pathway did not change, could not have changed, and should not have changed, in the shortest course of time, yet, only a finger counted amount of steps can be taken before getting lost, which would be substantially before the gate.
And it has not turned day yet, for the longest time. Day has not shown itself in here, until the gate, until the field. Daylight only appears beyond the field, and will only stay there. Or so it was believed.
Would it be understood that there is a good chance of foliage overdeveloping in this residence? Has it been so long that it just got darker? With the dreaded fog staying around the residence since time has decided to exist out of amusement? Would it be a curse to be indeed stuck here, with the assumed thought that this is the only secure place to be in, inside, trapped underneath all the foliage and fog, the darkness and obscurity that surround the entire small field and abode.
It was now mere memory, if ever remembered, was the day ever seen, or even the clearest and starry night, of whose light did help pave the way through countless fields for curious travelers and merchants. Light is now left to the nearest fireplace, the only source of immovable light.
But once in a while a traveler comes in, clear and distinct is his memory of what is outside that it does seem foolish to ask him to describe what is really normal. To which the rest of them have already taken for granted. But to be in the dark, stories of light and panoramic majesty raises hopes and amusement of the outside.
Could the traveler be trusted? Would it indeed be safe outside the confines of the abode? To whose name does his trust vouch to, if that being was not met in the first place? How would it be known that such a person does exist, with the famed reputation, to insist that this traveler could be trusted in his description of the outside, and the promise to be a guide?
And so in a quagmire it would be is the current situation, inside the curse of the abode, as the slight obscurity outside prevents further access to the outside. While it has been more obscure to stay inside all along.

Obscurity

Walking through what would be considered nothing more than an envelope of fog everywhere. Directions taken would point to the same scenery, the dreaded cloud of which even the sky cannot be seen. Throughout this evening, as in every evening, walks would be considerably difficult, as after a few steps off the safety of the enclosure, nothing can be seen, even the hand in front of the face.
But in the morning, like all mornings, with the sun up to its peak time, the pathway does emerge, and the entire scenery majestic boasts its finest colors, even for the merest few hours. Trees seem friendlier at these times, as does all the botanical and animated species. These are the few hours looked forward for.
How was it possible for pathways to disappear? All the friendlier noises an hour ago suddenly raises doubts about the true disposition of the fauna on the fields as noises now brings an intense heartbeat. Trees of majesty and grandeur are now left to intimidate, if ever seen, with any luck.
How could memory fail to recognize the same pathway that did exist an hour ago? This same pathway did not change, could not have changed, and should not have changed, in the shortest course of time, yet, only a finger counted amount of steps can be taken before getting lost, which would be substantially before the gate.
And it has not turned day yet, for the longest time. Day has not shown itself in here, until the gate, until the field. Daylight only appears beyond the field, and will only stay there. Or so it was believed.
Would it be understood that there is a good chance of foliage overdeveloping in this residence? Has it been so long that it just got darker? With the dreaded fog staying around the residence since time has decided to exist out of amusement? Would it be a curse to be indeed stuck here, with the assumed thought that this is the only secure place to be in, inside, trapped underneath all the foliage and fog, the darkness and obscurity that surround the entire small field and abode.
It was now mere memory, if ever remembered, was the day ever seen, or even the clearest and starry night, of whose light did help pave the way through countless fields for curious travelers and merchants. Light is now left to the nearest fireplace, the only source of immovable light.
But once in a while a traveler comes in, clear and distinct is his memory of what is outside that it does seem foolish to ask him to describe what is really normal. To which the rest of them have already taken for granted. But to be in the dark, stories of light and panoramic majesty raises hopes and amusement of the outside.
Could the traveler be trusted? Would it indeed be safe outside the confines of the abode? To whose name does his trust vouch to, if that being was not met in the first place? How would it be known that such a person does exist, with the famed reputation, to insist that this traveler could be trusted in his description of the outside, and the promise to be a guide?
And so in a quagmire it would be is the current situation, inside the curse of the abode, as the slight obscurity outside prevents further access to the outside. While it has been more obscure to stay inside all along.

Mirror Dreams

“I couldn’t sleep, but I don’t want to wake up.”, a reply from a sane man, a man of intellectual capabilities amidst the normal audio of a peaceful bar. In front of him, a colleague, intrigued as his intellectual stature may be challenged by what he may hear next.
“I keep seeing a mirror, with my image, shattered to pieces, but with it was the original state of my picture, fallen down but maintaining the fidelity, like a jigsaw puzzle, waiting to be put together, before my image is revealed, before I can realize who it really was.”
“Shattered all over the place, shattered in thousands, tiny broken pieces, large pieces, all of them depict my last reaction on the mirror before it shattered.”
“And what was that?” An inquisitive reply from his colleague, who later realized it would have been best to remain silent. It would be best to listen, with his drink at hand, probably a Martini perhaps, but it would be hard to conclude, as they can all look the same from the outside.
“That was more of a stare, an inquisitive stare. Just as I was trying to comprehend myself, it all broke into pieces. I still try to comprehend the symbolism, and in the process, I needed to wake up, to analyze the whole situation, but my waking up, I couldn’t see what happens next, as it was all happening in a dream.”
“Taken down along was who I was, who I really was. It was hard to comprehend, but I was in a state of confusion. As I was awake, trying to sleep. I was trying to go through the whole situation, but I also was trying to analyze”
“Along came me trying to sort out the different mirror sizes, all with their own sharp edges. I was bleeding, really bleeding, but I was still sorting. For maybe the whole clue was in there after all, the clue I needed was to be revealed when all the mirror was put together”
“Bleeding and staining the mirror pieces. Putting them all together and cleaning them up. I still didn’t finish, but I will try to finish it later.”
“Finish it later?” a confused looked dawned upon his colleague who, decided it would be best to get another drink.
“Finish it later. I brought the frame, I marked the large pieces by number on the back of the mirror and sorted them out. It will all make sense later on, you’ll see.”
“And this is a dream right? You were trying to comprehend a dream that you got obsessed upon, and that is indeed strange.” Moving towards the table, the colleague became serious, “Listen, it was all a dream, and its meaning would probably confuse you, but I do feel curious and amused to your logic, why go through the whole pain and illogical sense of sorting your dream?”
To which the dreamer replied, “I feel my purpose is to put that mirror together and remember what I looked before it shattered into pieces. Strange as it may seem, but however distorted it looks right now, it connects to each other, it makes sense. It will only bring me my enlightenment once I have put it together.”
“And what do you plan to do once it is all complete? What do you plan to learn?”, inquired the confused colleague.
“I don’t know yet, but I will shatter it into a million pieces after”, replied the dreamer.

Reflection on a Lake

Ever read with your eyes closed? Hypnotized by the words flowery by an author you might have never met, yet writes as if you do think alike? Gather your thoughts upon a lake and look below. Through your transparent reflection exists a seascape. But beyond this lies multiple ideas to what you feel. The author’s thoughts reflect upon what you want it to relate to you.
As the ripples of a slight activity of breeze brings forth your reflection distorted. The disruption changes what you see, and what is looking back at you. At this moment the strangest sensation of awe and disbelief lies the slight possibility that that might be you all along, looking at yourself in a rippled lake, looking back at yourself in its disturbed state.
In this distorted state lies a distorted reality. Our reflection is no longer true, but a perverted image of an external force. And while this outer reflection may distort, chances are our deeper state, the seascape, might shift as well. As fishes scramble in a confused manner over a change in outer state, activity brews in a momentary chaos below, leaving the slight amusement of wind to cause so much below, just by slightly distorting reality.
Had the lives within the seascape been experienced by the whiles of the wind would it continue with its own existence. Had it been realized that reality is not seen through matter that is easily influenced by change, but through a matter rigid of external forces. Reflections upon a lake is but a mere amusement, a dynamic change of reality of which does not show the same distortion twice.
To which it would make a strange coincidence though, through its extreme difficulty, would it take to keep any dynamic external forces away from dear lake. To which the seascape keeps silent, just as the wind above. Keeping itself curious and patient to purge the ripples away. To which mere instant, a true reflection did show, in its utmost beauty, staring back at the viewer, in a form patiently longed for, himself.

Light Pollution

On my way to Manila once on a trip I chanced upon a very astonishing view. This was a trip at night in a plane and as I was looking out on the window, like others, staring down on the city lights, I chanced to change my view to the middle. In this view there was a reddish hue, suggesting that of the city lights, shielded off in the middle would be the faint gray clouds, and on top, the dark night cladded with stars.
What made this view astonishing is the idea that as a city dweller it is almost impossible to see stars. There are a couple of stars visible nightly, aside from the moon. What caught me into reflection is the basic fact. In the airplane, we all look down in astonishment on what would be a “finite play of electrical lights” with yellows signifying halogens or incandescent and whites as fluorescent or EL. None of us tend to look up. And it took me a good amount of evening traveling to realize this.
Looking down at the flat layout of lights, that which looks abundant from a distance, playing the “city never sleeps” concept on its onlookers, mapping out outlines of roadways and bridges, only to realize that this is finite. We have all looked around our city on a straight line, and every time we look up, all we see are clouds.
Looking up, with stars distant from one another, what is amazing is its infinite number, its history carrying secrets none of us know. Looking down, with astonishment, we pride of our achievements. But to pride on what is still primitive compared to what is out there, what is still to be reached, we have limited our purpose.
And there would be a few who would go to mountains, with a telescope, watching the celestial bodies with awe. These men realize what took me long to know. There is a bigger place out there, something spiritual about infinity could grasp us into longing of our origin. These men would probably be doing what was accidentally discovered, the amazing view above the clouds at night, something that makes the trip worthwile after all.
And what could be the purpose of infinity? To some, it is the joy of discovery, as our purpose would never end, discovering wonders each and every day, appreciating a long and beautiful path towards a destination we still have yet to discover.