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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic

A poem which blooms at a certain point in the life of every individual, Pure attempts to resolve an existential crisis begot by the society. It expresses feelings of intense confusion, which leads
to exploration, and then discovery - a process in which the bearer of such fervent passion for understanding "itself" and the world has to challenge; and in this case, alone. However, weathering
this noble storm alone brings all kinds of thoughts. Death is but one of them.

Submitted: July 17, 2018

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Submitted: July 17, 2018





Pure is nothingness. It was taught that black is enemy, the night is evil; that the path to sin and righteousness are separate, that it must choose between the two. The flow of the universe was unidirectional: deviation is blasphemy!


It was always hot and was constantly struck at. The old mold for the limiting pot confined its creativity. It was caught in a tempestuous dogma – addictive to the growling belly and a cold dangling piece of ambiguity to the sated.  It is offensive to outsiders and righteous to the affiliates.


A golden bell rang, and it was struck by an illness, that of the mind. It was feverish but physically able—the ailment of the soul! The constrictions were slackened, and the limiter harmed. And its spirit was granted freedom for the first time in eighteen. Pure is neither good nor evil, nor it is neutral.


Once almost negligible, slightness expanded and its spirit broke free. The cogwheels moved to produce phantasmagorical visions. It suddenly stood overwhelmed in the face of a massive reality, miniature at the feet of truths. The reality it knew was just one of the millions, and like the rest, was neither right nor wrong. But its self-righteousness broke its being!


Pure is empty. The gears that worked at their discretion scattered into questions. The bottomless pit it fell into benumbed its heart. The darkness that it has been trained to fear became its domicile; the void was comforting. But its head was turbid still, the leash on its neck choked it to delirium—how was death one of the questions?


What terror! one leg into oblivion and the other still splashing in misery. Would the former be the freedom from everything or an eternal bath in the smoldering lake? Its horrified expression was cloaked with smiles and ‘it is goods.’ But yes, the threads manipulating it so far had all been entangled. It slept in a desolated room like it was a prison. It was a loner on an island, challenging the odds of relinquishing its own ember.


But alas, yes, it chose misery! The conception of right and wrong are only alive in the context of perspective.  The truth it once knew was of the old ribbon, unique and absolute in its world. The lands are plain and mountainous, the seas vast and unfathomable.  A small yellow leaf departing its branch shall not claim it is the tree! The color that threatens its eternity is sweet and endearing to this side. Nothingness stared at it, and darkness made it see.


Indeed, it was a human. But human is animal… Infernal! An outrageous remark, they will think, their mouths will blurt! To be less conspicuous, then, the human is only one of the various creatures on this planet. The superior intelligence it has granted it power and authority. The society they created is where they exercise this influence, which is built upon their collective mindsets, it must be said. But what fact! What origin! It was no less bare than modern animals!


Ah, reason! It should be based on this nature. It is not backward! It is not unimaginative, nor it is regressive. In fact, it allows for flexibility. Nay! It is not rebellious, either. It is the freedom drafted in the agreement, the benefit it bore! It is a composite of the many truths, the flower of diversity.


Dawn wakes up; the age of its rebirth. The universe does not flow to the direction it knows, but to the ones it follows. Perspective has myriad facades, has all colors; black can change in any. There is only one path for both right and wrong: the one it chooses. Civilization might say it is wrong, or even right, but that is just one of the faces. And it is its life.


Of course, even the murderer has a perspective, the murderer’s history! But all might say that it is in violation of the contract. Ah, humans! Their circle is the height of its interest! They magnificently suppressed their nature--genuinely wondrous!


But yes, it was not all miserable. What it experienced was the agony of undergoing metamorphosis in the presence of a conscious mind. Its ken has never been clearer than before, ever farther and wider than when it began. Pure is not white, it is not virginity, nor it is faithfulness.


Pure is nature – the raw and the natural. Ah, the beauteous innocence of beginnings.  It does not know, but it understands. Aye! It does not care; it coexists! Pure is the very consciousness recognizing that every element of knowledge and wisdom it acquires, every system and order it witnesses, are small layers to its existence—separate from its being in the most fundamental level.















© Copyright 2018 Yong Soriano. All rights reserved.

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