hills, rolling boulders, and fire

So many things to talk about, and so many things I've rediscovered the past few weeks (or more like the time gaps between the posts).

I've rediscovered poetry, having read a couple of poems from the 1980 Palanca Anthology last lazy Friday while waiting for Mom to pick me up at Bestsellers in Galleria. Yesterday I went back and bought it--at 250php it's a bargain for some of the gems of Philippine Lit.

The newsprint pages hid the words of the poets, the fragmented moments they captured through words and contained through verses.

I've again questioned the existence of everything--most particularly of divinity and the established truths of blind faith. After all, would it matter if the image on the Shroud was the Messiah or the thief on his right? The findings presented during the Turin exhibit were at most inconclusive. Plus it doesn't matter if really was the shroud of the Messiah or a prophet or a thief--people would still go on living the way they do after that moment of shock and surprise.

Even the most absurd of all follies would seem of the most impeccable of reason with blind faith.

I've realized, too, that being a demi-god--or a ruler or a leader or whatever you may wish to call it--becomes monotonous and tiring after a while. It's just like Sisyphus pushing a rock up a hill; or Prometheus, the fire, and his liver being eaten by those birds.

I am already burned out by the fire that I held; and I let the boulder fall not intending to pick it up sometime near the future.

I return to the pages of poetry, and the muse--from this drudgery and through these words-- save me.