Some Sad Days...................................................................40 the kiss of rue

the kiss of rue.

written by Angelle A. visual by Sean Carlo O. Samonte

silhouettes gently ebbing away as the sun sank; chilly air tickling my face, the sight from the balcony becoming darkened blurred hues and colors. dusk flirts in little tints— the city’s nightlife breathing into existence; static ringing in my ears. i look at glass panes, seeing somebody familiar, they look distant, yet their features indistinguishable to the very core— morphed into a different individual. i heaved in, lungs stinging as if breathing in broken fragments; shoulders carrying the weight of the world, throat unable to spill, mind bursting with thoughts— if i had left it all behind, gambled despite the unhinged path of colors, would the feeling of glass shards sinking in every single inch of my skin—fade away? if i had nurtured each brushstroke, each splash of hue, and each painted canvas, deafened my ears to those who planted wasps of doubt— would i still grit my teeth in frustration, feeling each limb delicately being torn like paper? if my lips knew to move when it was needed, would words from their mouths stop shattering into coarse pieces? woe—in the scenario where i had listened to my howling passion instead of caging it in, feigning that i was enjoying it all— would i have felt liberation? for what it’s worth—possibly. loathing yet i just nodded, a smile plastered on my face, loving the path that they romanticized for me to take. putting on a mask; a facade— eyes seeing through a stranger’s life from dusk till dawn—hollow. if i hadn’t stood idly, would i have eluded the kiss of rue? but tell me, fate— if i had stepped into the manic path of spilled colors, would these crumpled, monotonous papers beside me, be replaced with canvases that take my feet into flight, releasing them from the pain of impaling shards?

At the age of ten, I built a sandcastle. With fingertips buried in weather-beaten crystals, he fought the blistering heat—sore hands and beads of sweat notwithstanding. From here, a grand design was mapped out from crayon; staking the first claim towards greatness, as patterns were drawn by hand. From here, the road to ruin was paved from the molten yolk of eggshells. With toes dipped in the aquamarine shore, he watched the hazy skyline—heart swelling in anticipation. Bracing for a billowing surge; for waves that will wash away what’s deemed unclean. “This is mine, and mine alone.” Thoughts echoing as he fought every ebb and flow. From here, where sea meets land, defeat never felt so invigorating. Where he realized, the whirling tides were not of encouragement, but alarm bells ringing.

At thirty, I built a house of cards. Dealing with the hand he’s been dealt; he bet all his soul and gold to rise through the ranks— from a mere knave to someone whose power came in spades. The reign of kings and queens were overturned, their deck of soldiers shuffled; an ace through and through, years of sharpening shrewdness had diamonds falling on his lap. At fifty, I built an empire from my own stained hands.

He and his people tilled the soil, only to have every fortress they established return to dust. The pillars that supported them crippled from the obtuse weight; serving as the scales which measured his greed. As he laid down the foundation of his greatest yearning; every calculated move was made with ruthless precision. But as the world would have it, and he not know, a single breeze can topple a castle into cinders. At eighty, I demolished all that was my pride. For there he stood—a shadow of what he once was; A king of a crumbling throne, Laid chained to the impermanence that melted his sandcastle, that knocked over his house of cards. Left to laugh at the lad who dreamed to topple the height of the golden sun, he, who, in devouring everything, was left with nothing. At my deathbed, I leave this to the one who sees my footfalls. Do not attempt to trace the outlines I have laid down—lest you end up forged in the same mold of futility.

the makings of a despot

written by Kaila May T. Paceno visual by Jason Lee J. Pamati-an 45

visual by Timothee Ramon S. Consing