Humanized Übermensch.

She held her crying son by the hair a foot above the ground and slit open his throat. There was a final jerk and then blood spurted to the walls and covered the wooden floor of the old nipa hut. I stood there motionless as the morbid scene developed its finality, I registered its permanence whilst my mind stood over the wall of incoherent and uncommon response that bordered between understanding, for I would have done the same; and fear, for men would judge without understanding.

She has a dozen of children and not one was born on the same month. Her children have no name and are designated by the cardinal number of their birth, they wear nothing and have unkempt hair. They moved with their heads bowed and their lips pursed as if aware that it is not the dying, but the living that defeats us.

I look deeper in my heart and find nothing there.

His experiences do not add up to what has become of him.

You loath me for the beauty that I cannot see, disregarded as you would say. Every day you nag in befitting abhorrent tone how I do not appreciate your so-called “art” or the works of it. I was condemned as an “artsasinator” when I placed your 23 year-old painting in the basement. Your friends even called me ignorant when I used you blue and white china bowl for my noodles. What could have been more appropriate than a Chinese food in a china? I mean really? Every day was like this, “why did I throw away the flowers in the vase, why did I serve tea from the vase?” when I am all puzzled why we have a vase in the first place. No, the ornaments and the intricate details of a nude sculpture do not interest me.  Have I no eye for beauty? Was I born in some primitive oven toaster to be so isolated and numb from art, fashion, and beauty that I should run around the town in Hawaiian shirts and hard-pressed slacks? I swear you hoped I was Archimedes instead, going about the town naked whilst shouting “eureka!” I may not know or understand, even attempt to understand what beauty is. But in the same way, you never understand that you are all the beauty I need.

I have been on a hiatus and have forgotten how my penmanship looks. I run my fingers across each word I have written to feel the force and the intensity that accompanied each carefree stroke and realize that I have never been more passionate and more excited than when I am writing. 

When words have lost their meaning and I am good as dead, I reckon for the faintest memories for they are all I have. We were never really happy, but we loved just how we were; someone to sleep beside, to cuddle when the nights were cold, and to do the chores we hate. We never really committed; we just satisfied each other’s fancies, laughed at each other’s jokes, and know we’re not alone. Then words have lost their meaning and you are gone and dead.