-Shakespeare Redeemed -
Kristian Damaso
“Violence is not the answer. It is the question. The answer is yes.”
Programs: Google Docs, Adobe Spark Font(s): Amatic SC, EB Garamond. Image Sources: Adobe Spark, Unsplash: Lorenzo Herrera, Stephen Broome.
“State of Mind”---------------------------------1. “It’s 10:41” ------------------------------------2. “Testing, testing” -------------------------------4. “Clair de Lune - french for moonlight” --------------6. “A Sailor’s Life for me” ---------------------------7. “A travel guide for those lost” ----------------------9. “Though still not forgotten”----------------------10. “Life in a Bubble of Regret”------------------------11. “Highschool Blues” ------------------------------12. “Love as told by a Hopeless Romantic”----------------14. “Love as told by a Hopeless Romantic (Continued)”------16.
start here. (1)
“State of Mind” A pinch of panic, dose of depression, and the closing dash of anxiety - a perfect cocktail to pollute my mind. My mind - now a tangle of muddled-choices as I wire and rewire my thoughts like shattered light bulbs, desperate in my attempt to find a clear light amongst all this messiness. My right leg won’t stop tapping - fidgeting as I type in the darkness. I can’t fathom why - and it becomes a whole new fear of mine. Another unknown to jot down in the book of life. This tainted-water doesn’t numb me anymore, not as well as it used to; so now as I try and sit still - with this st-state of mind. I gulp down this perfect cocktail; which clears everything up even if just for one grande, but fleeting split-second. And then it fades, as I shall too, one day.
then here. (2)
“It’s 10:41”
I am telling you this because you’re the only person who won’t judge me. Being sober is no longer fun. I really don’t like knowing how I feel. It ain’t great, that’s for sure, this heartache; a pain that coils around my heart, squeezing out any life leftover. And so what, if the alcohol doesn’t actually help, at least it helps to cease the tightening inside, deep inside my exhausted chest. I’ve tried to breathe, but it chokes my words; spelling out in short blurbs a death sentence dealt out to me as if I was popped out playing hangman. Trapped within my own thoughts like He-Man. You see, my whole world is a fantasy. Of which I wish to write a biography atop a paper airplane. On which, I’ll fly to another country, an entire continent away. In which, I’ll finally find a place to pass; fake my death till no longer fake,
till my final breath, till the day death herself decides to give me a damn break, giving my story a much-needed end. I know I am selfish, the receipts show it. I know I am unhappy, my blood paints it. I know I am human, this letter proves it. Sincerely, you in ten minutes.
next here. (4)
“Testing, testing” My mirror looks like a tightly-strung cobweb, crevices wedged with dust mites and depression. It is eight-fifty-three. Studies have shown that ten minutes of peering into a mirror in a low-light environment leads to a gradual tangling of the mind. A mist of fogged-doubt begins to shroud the subject’s mind; they fear not the success of the test, but rather the visions that they might see.. Visual errors from within their visage take hold; as the eyes begin to gloss over. Fear hastens it’s silent creep into the consciousness; however, now under no pretense of hiding. The subject’s mental state has finally pitted - plunging into a whole new low. Terrors and nightmares mesh with the dust particles infecting the air. Subjects no longer have a tether with reality, illusions and distortions rule their mind now. They see something, anything, and nothing staring back into their eyes.
Looking into the mirror, I find the semblance of a grin amongst all the cracks, and the shadows that tear it apart. It is nine-o-three.
then here. (6)
“Clair de Lune - french for moonlight” Debussy rings as I write; as I sit at my desk grasping for any words to lay upon the page - the piano melody chimes away to my left; a sweet five minute concord of highs-and-lows, The moon is only now starting to peek above the sky, just as my mug begins to grow cold. The coffee inside reflecting my monitor as Clair de lune begins to shine through my window. A smirk creeps its way onto my face - just as the liquid inside begins to flutter within the soft moonlight of melody; it is a slow and sweet sway that it partakes.
afterwards here. (7)
“A Sailor’s Life for me” Glass clatters atop the hollow concrete, the soon-after shatter sending shockwaves that reverberate through my eardrums; but, still like that last day in the Congo, I can’t seem to remember her face, but h er words… they still ring. So clearly - that
I still see the light. I first saw the darkness.
It was just yesterday, I had met the man once more. His cruel eyes did nothing to hide the pain behind them. The dark-brown mixed in with the hollow pits of black, his palms calloused like tree bark while reaching for his drink.
Her laugh rattles through me for a moment, my mind dazed like a deer caught in the headlights. Laughter like hers I had only ever witnessed once, vivid and true, carrying her own touch of brightness that shined as the sun does in a forest. The smile she held… the only sight that could anchor me ashore.
He brought me to the shore once, the day of his departure. The eyes that faced me were clouded over; two storms were in attention that day, one that battered his insides and one that battered the waves he loved.
Goodbye, was an underlying promise that could never be kept; so, the silence was a fleeting comfort.
I was thankful for our shared silence; it was finally able to calm my nerves, which now pulsed lightly like soft tidbits of water against the dock wood.
She was mad at me, but she was happy for me too. The fleeting sadness within us slowly faded as the drowning echo of the ship’s air horn signalled my queue.
As he bent down onto one knee, my jaw slacked and a tear escaped from my eyes.
My knee caused a creak to escape from the floorboards, but still I could not help the gentle fondness of her head nodding and her slight arms gripping mine.
now here. (9)
“A travel guide for those lost.”
For those of us, weary travelers - for
our eyes which can no longer stare into the sun, our ears which can no longer dip into frequencies, our hands which can no longer hold others.
For those of us, whose path has become lost in the gale-force wind we love to call - living. It is okay to stop, after we’ve lost any and all sense of worldly-direction; North, West, South, East, or otherwise. It is okay
to shut out the sun and all of its bright intensity, to fade away amongst the galley of hums and whistles around us, to lose touch with this reality we have called - life.
Rest for a while, weary travelers - for The world is too big a place, not to be traveled.
after, here. (10)
“Though still not forgotten” Breathe. In. Out. Forget. Forget. Forget her smile; hers that plucked at the strings of your heart, playing a tune that spoke una vez más, mi amor. Forget her laugh; hers that rattles throughout your eardrums, pacifying your anger, and any leftover ticks of violence. Forget her eyes; her dark-brown orbs that buckled your knees, st-st-stuttering your own clumsy limericks like toppled jenga. Forget everything; forget your feelings, for even they were fleeting and calloused to begin with. Forget. Forget. Breathe. In. Out.
then here. (11)
“Life in a Bubble of Regret”
Dreams of her and I keep me up at night. In the shadows of my sheets I tend to lie, breathing till my final sigh. The cold still bothers me, she was once my warmth, but then that changed. Day-by-day I start to become deranged, but I guess this is just my fate. I tend to take this time without her near me feeling quite the damn fool. Living without her is like breathing through heavy fog -- in the morning it takes a moment to get used to, in the night it gets tough when I try to forget, in those days my soul overflows with regret, in those moments I dream of the day that we met. These days I live -- live with hope. Hope to die -- die away within our fading light.
once more here. (12)
“Highschool Blues”
If he was a love poet, he’d write countless pages about her, anything about her. She reminded him of an untouched sapphire; stunningly dazzling with an underlying feeling of darkness that charmed the shadows. Before they had even spoken, the boy saw her as the beautiful, but mysterious anomaly. Even now he writes, confused by the insecurity that plagues the young belle. Little does she know that it’s okay to have flaws, okay not to be perfect. Little does she know that there exists a boy who revels in her perfect imperfection. A part of him wants to tear out the deep roots of his feelings, but he remains conflicted. Matters of sound logic cease to exist within him whenever she appears in his mind.
All the boy ever hoped for, crushed in mere moments by the sayings of a tactless friend. Negativity. Scores of it envelope his mind, his hostile nature beginning to fully come into life, threatening to explode into a barrage of violent tendencies. Under the starry sky of his eyelids, he felt the blues arise from his fractured heart. So now, the boy finishes his poem; once brimming with hope, now void of any at all. In this moment, the boy regrets the hope he felt during the somber ides of March.
and finally here. (14)
“Love as told by a Hopeless Romantic” I’ve always loved the concept of love, the way people always have complete faith in it. I mean, even if the ground starting collapsing around them, they’d still believe in love. I love the many types of love, the many different types that make our tiny, little hearts go clippity-clop. I love the cliche kind-of love; the love that blooms from two extremely oblivious freshmen coincidentally colliding in a high-school hallway …that kind-of love. I love the kind-of love that comes out of nowhere, that blindsides you when you least expect it, leaving you with an objective to act upon that love. I love the kind-of love that makes you stupid, the love that makes your heart dip n’ dive within your chest, motivating you to act your not-so-very best …that kind-of love. Not the Romeo and Juliet kind-of love, I prefer the Cory and Topanga kind-of love. The kind-of love that comes with its own set of issues,
the kind that hits rock-bottom every now and then. The kind-of love that reminds others that not everything is all sunshine and rainbows; sometimes, just sometimes love is about upside-down smiles and teary chatter. I’ve always been in love with the idea of love, the glorious expectations people put behind it. Like an aphrodisiac, love leaves many breathing shallow, it leaves many of their hearts beating quick like a jazz drummer who's been playing for many years. Like a final farewell between two people, it leaves some with a sense of dread, leaving them wondering about all the “what-ifs” or all the “what would’ve” situations.
continued here. (16)
Continued. The idea of love leaves me feeling many things, whether it be the joy of a high-schooler being accepted into college, or the heartbreak of signatures being signed on a piece of paper marking the end of an era, an era filled to the brim with morning-light greetings, and late-night hugs. I absolutely adore the reality of love; the humorous banter that walks hand-in-hand with it. The loving care when ones sick, and even the endless bickering when two argue. I love the sleepless nights on the couch after-said argument that you know you lost, but continued with nonetheless. I love the hoodie-wearing, fridge magnet reality of love. I love all the Netflix marathons, the mountain of Chinese takeout, and the late-night coziness that comes with the reality of love. The love that exists between two people who love each other so very much, that they hate each other ten times more. I’ve been in love with love for more than fifteen years. She leaves me with my heart beating fast,
like lightning every few seconds. With my heart bleeding out, desperately trying to pump out all the sadness. She leaves me... feeling joy, She leaves me... feeling blue. What I love about love, is that she leaves me loving you.
thank you for reading, have a nice day. (and thanks to my teacher and friends at litmag, who never fail to amaze me.)