Soul's Phantasm

Path

2009-03-21T00:44:00.000+08:00

Marriage is not finding someone to own
but someone to hold. It’s about finding
that missing part of you at the right moment
you realize you were not meant to be alone.

It’s the part where we connect, soldering our souls
to the universe so we see each other
every time we look at the stars, reminding us why
we want to stretch our arms and reach.

I know there will be days where reaching might be a little too much,
or we think that it may not be enough to forgive our little faults.
But, I promise you that if you could just let me be
your anchor to hold you through all the storms,

I will be still.
I will be satisfied.
I will bring you to the sea
that is and will be my love.

Although sometimes it may recede from the shore,
I can promise it will always return—stronger and intent
on being that expanse, that adventure, that horizon for you
That line that swallows darkness to reveal the sun

Because love is all about the time we find to give away;
taking baby steps by first watching then doing,
learning to build paths between your universe and mine
even when there are none to follow,

just so we can lead each other home.

Sink or Swim

2008-11-09T23:19:00.029+08:00

I've walked the plank so many times,
I could have been a ballerina―
dancing on guilt trip wires because
I'm graceful when head over heels,
tumbling. "Look Ma! no hands!"

Look what he did, Ma, they're broken:
promises written on bones
too heavy to carry this far
out to sea. So I drop anchor
where dreams go to die.

I lie, dead still,
his name chiseled off my back
with an ice pick― because
I needed to make holes
to breathe again.

Perhaps if he had a backbone
I would not need to carve my own.
It costs too much and I should be
saving the tears inside cups
for him to drink; and forget

the time the water broke
me open, spilling hopes when
no hands were on deck to stop
memories from seeping through
the cracks where our smiles used to
be.

Update: Have go-see at the interesting poem-reactions this piece has churned @ SL Corsua's blog, Unguarded Utterance - "Postcard-Sign (Off) Language" and Blue Rogue's "Dive" @ Extraplanar.

Tourist

2008-08-11T08:35:00.002+08:00

All over my fridge are magnets,
keepsakes from the places I've been.
In San Francisco, I bought the Golden
Gate the moment my 13 hour flight landed.

I don't have one for Tucson,
where I met you for the first time.
As if you, too, couldn't see beyond
just in front of us.

I didn't get one in Nogales, though
we went to many gift shops.
About hunger: I've known it,
and I've been told to bear with it.

As the days passed, my Arizona
collection grew: Wupatki Ruins, Sunset
Crater and yes, the Grand Canyon,
bought the week before I had to leave.

In Manila, I arranged them on
my fridge, a souvenir shrine
to remind me of what
I could not bring home.

Love without Sex: A response to Sharon Olds

2008-07-13T22:53:00.002+08:00

They do it, the ones who love
without making love, by dancing with words
that reach out to each other, falling short
over the glass, fingers pressed
against monitor screens, curved
over keyboard bodies, faces
red as the sun, one setting the other rising
at the other end of the world, wet as the
oceans that come between their need to
come to, come to come to God come to
each other. They do it without kissing
the love that gave birth to their poetry, whispers
spreading steady like warmth from heated
laptops. These are the true romantics,
the dreamers, the mystics, the ones who
have accepted the logic of distance,
the mathematics of bridges and yet
don’t turn back at the sight of the gap, for
they are the greatest gymnasts: ones who
arch their backs over the globe, flipping
electrical switches to cross the synapses
of their bodies, neurons shuddering
in rhyme—these factors, like the bed
never been to, is the solution, to the
problem of souls divided by 2, reaching
over the universe defying
their lack of owned time.

————————————————–

read sharon olds’ poem here

Stitch

2008-07-13T08:49:00.002+08:00

At the mental seams
you and I were conceived,
(stitched from the rags
of empty arms)
souls joined at the hips,
grinding against each other’s need
to be. Above the bed lay
its parallel line (contract, horizon,
point of rest) where slept
the discovery that you and I
were not supposed to meet
in this illusion of a future woven
into our past-entangled arms.

Aftermath

2008-07-07T21:51:00.001+08:00

The morning after
he took one of his cigarettes and lit it
with what might have been a pistol.
The floor had been swept
of the garbage
spilled on its cement tiles.
The sink that was piled with dishes
was clean. no remnants
jammed in the drain,
the bathroom reeked of antiseptic.
Smells like the hospital, she whispered.
He helped her lie down
and kissed her forehead,
knowing how
her eyes resembled
Quiapo stalls and sampaguitas,
memories seeping through
like her monthly stains.
He knelt beside the bed,
knowing how
Septembers might've been a baby
one that could've been theirs
screaming for milk
they could not afford,
because only
when the neighbors couldn't sleep
would they ask him, why? how?
knowing how
he would've answered,
he couldn't do everything.
He watched her sleep and
put the pistol lighter down.
After all,
he saw too much not to feel
her silent cries through the
thin blankets she clutched
like they were the walls
of her own womb.

[old poem, might polish later when I have the time]

Identity

2008-07-07T08:57:00.002+08:00

I don’t think I’ll make a real transvestite,
wear my heart in fire-engine heels,
and still walk straight, head high.
No, every morning, before I put on
my acceptable black pumps,
I cup the soles of my feet and
feel the weight of regret at
what I could never be: proud
and comfortable with my identity,
unafraid of being packed away in
the labels that would make
anyone craven, shirking
inside their own closets.

[this was a free write in gotpoetry.com’s tag-team-poem project the first line from lordfuznut]

intramuros

2008-07-05T06:29:00.001+08:00

It happened slowly, the gradual
stripping away of her beauty.
Some say she was,
some just shook their head
and refused to look at her eyes-
where it began.

When young seedlings are plucked, uprooted and thrust upon the landfills, they learn to look at themselves from the grey reflections of sky in mud puddles. She reaches down and washes her face with the murky water from poisoned pools that branch out into the Pasig river, where she had found her memories washed up along its plastic ridden shores, coated with the oil and grime from the drainage of childhood. She wipes dry only her eyes, leaving a mask across her mouth to filter the city air before proceeding to walk along Taft Avenue barefoot, hips slowly taking the shape of her surroundings.

II.

The long route of wide winding roads will eventually lead her to the safety of the old city walls, but for now, she tells herself that we wear old habits like halos, circular patterns where we must look back to get ahead of ourselves. Born from the river, perhaps she was not one who believed in straight lines, knowing that at some point the path she treads will branch out again into sooty alleyways and back streets of Ermita where she will learn to dance along the cracks of her broken spirit, the music allowing her to hide them beneath her calloused soles.

III.

He came across her dancing, his eyes tracing the curved lines of her spine. A camote vine, with ends curled upward, seeking the sun, wrapped itself tightly around his hands. She was beautiful, like rose petals scattered along the pavement, thorns snapped off and pressed against skin flushed deep red from the stains he left on her eyesight. He kissed her eyelids shut and untangled the frayed vine that by now, only hung from one wrist, and let it fall on the asphalt, cheek first.

IV.

She lies on the ground on her side and thinks about how it happened quickly, the stripping away of her beauty. Some say she had forgotten how beautiful she was, others say she never knew. So they shake their heads and refuse to look at her eyes- where it ended. She smiles under her mask, knowing how it never really ends, knowing how all waters will eventually crawl their way back, even when bent and twisted with only one eye facing the sun it vowed to follow, to the sea.

*My first prose poem...woohoo!

Still

2008-05-23T17:23:00.001+08:00

I have replaced you so many times
In my mind, changed your age and face.
Today I imagined you five years old, wearing
one of my shirts that fell all the way down
to your knees. We watched TV for a while and
when a dog was shot in a movie you asked
“Is that puppy sleeping?” And I said, “Yes, for his own good.”

At nights I would tuck you in beside me,
watching you sleep softly still, until
I realized that whenever I stand still
the landscape stretches and reveals new things—
mountains, previously dots on the horizon,
loom and threaten to crush or force me to run;
and so I run in the other direction
forgetting, keeping the memories in the dark

closet, where the cat, Milky, liked to sleep.
Later, I asked you not to go near her as she had
Just given birth on my newly washed towels.
Later we found that the kittens were stillborn,
flesh stuck together, like a foreboding feeling
that couldn't be shaken off, only buried,
in a shoe box grave under a willow in the yard. Though
Milky came every night to look for them in the closet anyway.

During fiestas you would speak to me as a pig would speak
before it was slaughtered. Your voice drowning the
busy chatter of relatives and friends preparing meals,
skinning sausages with sharp kitchen knives, slicing
fetal curves of garlic, crushing them into pepper, and I -
would choke on a throat full of water
and watch you trickle on the metal basin
full of raw dinuguan.*

*dinuguan - "pork blood stew" or "chocolate meat" or "chocolate pudding" in English, is a Filipino savory stew of blood sausage and offal simmered in a rich, spicy gravy of pig blood, garlic, chili and vinegar.
(from wikipedia)

stoned

2008-05-17T21:24:00.001+08:00

you are the stone I swallowed

small and smooth because it fell
with rain I never saw coming

hard to catch in palms that bruise easy
the way it sat in my stomach long

after it slowly climbed up to sit
on top of the wall, a Humpty Dumpty

on a heart that needed
just one more

brick

Email

2008-05-12T22:08:00.002+08:00

I found you in this mailbox
when my hand reached
inside to look for a laugh,
little did I know that
when I pulled you out,
you tickled my heart
so much, I just had to
keep you.

Burned

2008-05-11T08:40:00.002+08:00

You must find it
fascinating how–
moths are riveted
to the flickering pyre
you dangle
in between fingertips.
Its wings dance
alongside silent, gray tendrils
escaping your breath.
Circling around,
irrevocably drawn
to the sighs
that kiss your lips.
Saltine beads,
tease your temple,
then your cheekbone,
curving around your jaw.
A faint smile shows
your minute amusement
at how this creature
will leave a field of flowers
for the scent of sweat.
This drab cousin
of the butterfly,
craves attention
and will stay still
on your palm
staring up
in simple-minded wonder
at the meteor
about to burn
its wings.

Prayer

2008-05-07T23:34:00.001+08:00

He is kneeling.

Joints locked in grief
as he looks ahead
to the altar where
he imagines Celtic knots
unwind from the crucifix
and begin to tie themselves
around his neck.

He reaches back
on the church bench,
fingertips finding it
suddenly riddled with scars-
names and serial numbers
that once belonged
on violet wrists.

His eyes close
as the requiem starts
to unravel the invisible
skein of a memory:
a red-hot iron branding
cold skin of a son
that could've been.

The bell tolls
for his last supper,
its mournful knell
breaking the glass casket,
spilling his conscience
like wine poured into chalices
that were her fingers.

His shaking hands clasp
in repetitive prayer for
his eyes to see in
shades of gray,
so he will not remember
the yellow ribbon his daughter
is tying around 88 stones

of an unmarked grave.

[This was written for a writing prompt in
workshop forums on the subject of racism.]

My first journal publication

2008-04-21T14:07:00.000+08:00

Hey all, sorry I haven't updated much ever since the bar exams. Still picking up life after. In the meantime, happy to announce my first journal publication of intramuros and love without sex. :) Hope to be back soon. I miss you all. Just click on the pic and it'll take you there.

Rebound inertia

2008-04-12T21:56:00.000+08:00

You were the mystery
I didn't care to solve.
A silicate myth from cosmic theories
born out of longing for proof. Any kind.
But when the umbilical cord
started to wrap around secrets
too cold to crack with bare hands,
one can only shiver with need-
to fill a void
after the sun died.

Thank you

2008-03-29T16:51:00.003+08:00

To all of you wonderful readers, poets who were with me during my journey that was the Philippine bar exam... Thank you for listening and supporting me and keeping me sane through blogging :)

Results came out 20 mins ago. I'm going to be a lawyer!

Drowning in coffee

2007-12-06T18:33:00.000+08:00

This morning I stir rain into my Starbucks cappuccino, angry foam running vertically up the cup's embankments. Businessmen scurry past with their polished briefcases, ties worn a little too tight. Cellphones ring and mine had my aunt on the other end. She was drowning. I tell her to write the credit card company back and ask for proof, "Oh and auntie, ask them to stop harassing you."

I would give anything to hear her breathe. She grieves water and I teach her how to swim the way she taught me when I was a child. A newspaper headline catches my eye: 12 year old girl commits suicide because of poverty. She had hung herself because her father could not give her 100 pesos for a school project. I look at my 120-peso cappuccino. Voice dry and unconvincing, I bid goodbye,"Ok auntie, don't worry."

Hope floats, I try to tell myself. Yet the coffee leaves froth on my mouth and for the life of me, I could not stop the rain.

Replaced

2007-11-20T03:19:00.000+08:00

When he smiles in his sleep
I know he is dreaming of you together
in Hong Kong, in a sunny-colored house
he knew only from pictures
you sent when he was eight,
edges worn from tracing the inflatable slides
in the background, swimming pool
bringing droplets to his face.

You must have slung him on your hip,
I know this from the crush of his arms around
my waist every time I try to pull him awake.
We’ve never made love in the mornings.
He thinks I should make him breakfast.
He knows you did. But not for him.
He has only tasted your cooking
through phone calls telling him to eat more
so he would “grow to be a big and strong man.”

He has.

I don’t remember from where it was
that I took your place,
It must have been somewhere between
the sheets and the old shirt of yours
he insists I wear when I’d forget
to bring a change of clothes
whenever I spend the night.

The dryer isn't working again.
from the balcony, I hang his laundry
to dry by wind that carried you away.
Later when he asked me to marry him,
he told me to use clothespins
so I wouldn’t follow you.

I don’t remember from when it was
that I took your place,
perhaps it was sometime from when
his lips clung to my nipple until I
decided to slip an arm under his neck
and cradle him to sleep.

Paper planes

2007-11-09T11:48:00.000+08:00

My mother, she taught me how to make it.

She used to prepare the materials
and lay them on the dining table for me.
Paper, ruler, scissors, cutter,
cup of tea- to warm my stomach
in the mornings when I tucked
these memories beneath the folds:

the color of her knuckles
prying my tiny hands off her leg,
the sound of my wails
bouncing off airport halls,
and the overhead cabin lights
that for the first time

I had to reach on my own.

I made slits for air and view
using angles that made flight possible-
for paper planes are better than real ones,
those made of steel, because no cup of tea
made by flight attendants
could ever warm my stomach.

But my mother taught me how to make it,
this speck of white that soared
in the expanse of blue,
a paper plane, a keepsake
trimmed and folded to make
an absence less than total.

Poetry for a cause

2007-10-11T10:15:00.000+08:00

ashes

She flicks her last cigarette
on the ground and steps on it
then grabs a broom to sweep
the street of the ashes
that remind her of him.
She doesn’t stop
until the asphalt is clean–
no filters left in the ditch,
until there is only the quiet
that comes after the sound
of the last embers fizzle out
like her memories of him:
how he loved to smoke
after they made love, how in turn,
she loved to watch him hold fire
at his fingertips without getting burned,
how the smoke he inhaled through his nose
always looked like they were tendrils
of her hair he loved to smell.
She sweeps these thoughts
into her dustpan and allows herself
to only recall the sound of her voice
when she promised to quit smoking
at his death bed.

Dear readers,

Please sign this petition I authored. It's my first to write for a cause. I really need your help in getting this message out. I will be eternally grateful.

-rax

===============

Sign now.

http://www.PetitionOnline.com/ghwphil/

* Over 30 M Filipinos will suffer debilitating diseases and painful deaths due to smoking. Another 30 M Filipinos will suffer the same due to second hand smoke.

* 40 of the chemicals in cigarette smoke are carcinogens, like carbon monoxide, butane (used as lighter fluid), cyanide and formaldehyde, arsenic (rat poison), and ammonia (toilet cleaner). Ads do not disclose this.

Right now the textual health warnings for tobacco products cannot be understood or appreciated by the Filipino people. Other countries have recognized this and have since used picture based warnings in order to warn their citizens of the hazards of smoking. Statistics will show that such method is effective as it has significantly improved the overall health of their citizens.

The Filipino people have a right to life and health just as much as other citizens. They have the right to a better if not the best method to warn them of the danger inherent in smoking. The text warning right now is STILL NOT ENOUGH. Many are still smoking and dying while the young ones are curiously taking up the habit not knowing its effects, creating a vicious cycle of death that could be prevented through the use of picture based health warning that is universally understood by the people, especially the many who cannot read and understand.

Sign now. Because a picture can save millions of lives.

http://www.PetitionOnline.com/ghwphil/

==========================

The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills.

2007-09-17T16:53:00.000+08:00

Death comes for us all. We can only chose how to face it when it comes.
-quoting Aviendha, from the wheel of time series by Robert Jordan

I grieve. My favorite author, Robert Jordan, author of the bestselling Wheel of Time fantasy series, passed away yesterday on September 16, 2007 2:45 PM, US time from complications from primary amyloidosis with cardiomyopathy (cardiac amyloidosis). He was diagnosed with the illness sometime in March last year. Since then he has fought the disease bravely. As bravely as he fought in Vietnam with the U.S. Army, earning Decorations such as the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Bronze Star with "V", two Vietnamese Crosses of Gallantry, back in his pre-writing carreer. (Yes, I'm that much of a fan to know this tidbit). He now rests in peace, a hero, in every sense. It takes courage to face battle, and in his passing, us millions of fans, all over the world, will remember him for it.

Robert Jordan has touched so many lives. He taught me to dream, imagine and much more through his work. Each character he made has a life of its own that has touched my life in so many ways. His books are my treasure. Its richness of detail and imagination has been my inspiration for so many of my own poems.

To his family and loved ones, my deepest respects and prayers though he is gone his memory will not, his words will live forever.

Some of my favorite quotes from his series:

"Any day you wake up, maybe you die." -Deni

"What a strange thing to say," Egwene said. "Why do they use it like that? Peace." "When you have never known a thing except to dream," Lan replied, feeling Mandarb forward, "it becomes more than a talisman." -al'Lan Mandragoran and Egwene al'Vere

"Death is lighter than a feather, but Duty is heavier than a mountain." -al'Lan Mandragoran

"Should and would build no bridges." -Lini

"A flapping tongue has killed more men than sudden storms ever did." -Siuan Sanche

"We all have our limits. The thought slid up suprisingly from somewhere. And we set them further out than we have any right." - Rand al'Thor

"I will run no more." - Aviendha

"We are always more afraid than we wish to be, but we can always be braver than we expect." -Sorilea

"A man who trusts everyone is a fool, and a man who trusts no one is a fool. We are all fools, if we live long enough". -Lews Therin Telamon
"If a woman does need a hero, she needs him today, not tomorrow." - Egwene al'Vere

"'Lan told me once that Malkier lives so long as one man wears the hadori in pledge that he will fight the Shadow, so long as one woman wears the ki'sain in pledge that she will send her sons to fight the shadow. I wear the ki'sain, Master Aldragoran. My husband wears the hadori. So do you. Will Lan Mandragoran ride to the last battle alone?'" - Nynaeve ti al'Meara Mandragoran
"A beautiful battle is one you don't have to fight" - Mat Cauthon

I know I will never get tired of his work. I've read each book 3x and was going to go through em again after the bar. I made many friends through our common love of his books. We all grieve. May he find water and shade with the Lord. May the light Illumine him as he has us. His memory will live on, the story will continue...

I will find the song, or another will find the song, but the song will be sung this year or in a year to come. As it once was, so shall it be again, world without end.
-farewell among the Tuatha'an

Is God Sleeping?

2007-09-11T21:47:00.000+08:00

For our typhoon and landslide victims. Don't lose hope.

I leave this by your ear for when you wake:
Prayers. Stacked all over the floor, these petitions
to redress their grievances, are most urgent.
But what do I know, I'm only the sun,
your messenger. I must admit I didn't have the time
to read them all since I have to travel back
across the globe soon, to deliver.

No wonder you're so tired, but you must have
read them all anyway. Some of the men
have been clamoring for a raise. I don't complain,
I'm already as high up as I want, but the others...
The moon's been pulling the tide to her side, I hear.
Careful, those unions are tricky. They have the wind
and rain running all over the place lately,
typhoons holding a rally in the pacific. It's frustrating
because there are places I cannot reach.
And you tell me no work no pay. The landslide
wasn't my fault. Those mud-tapes are too thick
for me to step through. Its dark in those parts,
but you, you can reach them.

I see the mud crusts on your feet and I smile,
even with the airmail over
on her side, they have you.
I know you won't let them down. It's because of you
that they have the strength to appeal
their petitions dismissed, with costs.

Call for submissions: Beth's legacy

2007-09-05T22:18:00.000+08:00

GotPoetry is seeking submissions for a chapbook length book of poetry about violence, survival and hope. The book, Beth's Legacy, will be published in memory of Elizabeth Spence Cann, who was murdered by her ex-boyfriend, and all proceeds will benefit Brittney and Danielle Cann, her daughters, who were critically injured in the attack that killed their mother.

Beth's Legacy

On the morning of August 27, 2007, Elizabeth Spence Cann was found shot to death in her own bed. Two of her daughters, 12 year old Brittney and 15 year old Danielle, were found on the floor of the hallway leading into her room. Both girls had been shot in the head and left for dead. The shooter, Beth's estranged boyfriend, took his own life early that morning.

By some miracle, both Danielle and Brittney survived the senseless attack, but both face a long, long road to recovery. A third daughter, their oldest sister Amanda, was not home at the time. She faces a future of questions and grief.

The girls are a part of Gotpoetry's extended family. Beth was the niece of Gotpoetry staffer Deb Powers, and deeply loved cousin of regular member and contributor Cara Powers (crlpr11). In the week that followed the shooting, the Gotpoetry community reacted to the news with an outpouring of sympathy, love and support for which the family is extremely grateful. Many also privately asked if there was something more, something tangible, that they could do to show their support for the family and the injured girls. There is.

Gotpoetry is seeking submissions of poetry for a chapbook length anthology to be called "Beth's Legacy". We're especially seeking poems that speak to surviving loss, recovering from violence and ending domestic abuse. There is no restriction on form or length. All styles of poetry are welcome, though poems of less than 60 lines will be more likely to be accepted.

The selection committee for Beth's Legacy will include the staff of Gotpoetry and representatives of Beth Cann's family. The finished book will be available for purchase through Gotpoetry and a variety of other outlets, with all proceeds from the sale contributed to the Cann Family Hope Fund set up for the support and aid of Brittney and Danielle by Beth's church in Norton, MA.

Deadline for submissions is September 30, 2007.
Submit up to three poems for consideration in the body of an email to :
bethslegacy@onlythebest.info by September 30.

Please submit only original poetry to which you hold the copyright.
Because the book is a fund raiser, we can not pay for the poems accepted, but we will make the book available for download to any poet whose work appears in Beth's Legacy. Your submission to [Beth's Legacy grants to us one-time print publication rights to your submitted work. You retain all other rights to your work.

If you would like to make a donation directly to the fund, you can do that by sending your donation to:

Danielle and Brittany Cann Hope Fund
Bank of America
574 Foundry Street
South Easton, MA 02375

raining words

2007-09-03T20:41:00.000+08:00

my first published poem, featured in A.C. French's book of haiku and senryu, 'Saliva Trails'. Available @ lulu.com

Red Moon

2007-08-29T06:24:00.000+08:00

(Photo courtesy of the Irish Astronomical Association).

some nights the moon is bent double
laughing
at the trysts that go on
behind the sun's back;
until it aches and grasps
its stomach, vomiting
at the thought
she could have prevented some
had she shone her brightest
just for that night.

My horoscope for August 2007 provides:

"This month you come to the end of a 1,000-mile journey. Ever since Saturn entered Leo in July 2005, you have had a long and gradual process of reinventing yourself. You may feel as though you've just completed an important rite of passage, and chances are that you did. "

This is so true. 2005 was really a bad year for me. I had gotten sick, my apartment broken into, broken up a long-term relationship (6 yrs counting the close friendship before officially becoming a couple) and I find myself looking back at how far I've gone, especially when I remember those times when I thought the pain was too much to bear. But now I must look forward. Just the other night I was overwhelmed with fear and panic, just out of nowhere. Well, really it's because of the bar, but I closed my eyes and remembered that I was where I wanted to be. That it's worth it. That I must make another step and keep going, I mustn't stop now.

"Whenever we enter a realm where everything seems new and a bit overwhelming, it takes time to ease into the new role. We feel that way when we do something that's life changing for the first time...Now, as you gaze back over the past two years, your old life likely seems almost laughably easy. You grew into your new responsibilities, and although life may have seemed exhausting because you had so much to learn, now it probably seems as it should - normal."

I'm grateful to be this lucky. To be where I am now- near the finish line I set for myself 7 years ago. It's been a hard journey, and hopefully it will end soon. So I can look with eyes reborn. Alive. I used to be dead, in a sense, perhaps my old poems will show some glimmer of that truth, but if you notice, over the months, I have started injecting hope in my work. And maybe a bit of anger. Fire. I believe it's time for me to claim my birthright, the sun. Let me break free from the shadows of my past and warm my hands by the fire. My hands have been cold for so long, tired from holding the moon up, as a make-shift sun as I weave my way through the dark path, sidestepping tentacles that are prone to curl around my ankles.

"You assumed your life would continue as it has so far, but Saturn is moving on to another sign, so actually, life is about to get a bit easier for you by next month. By September 2, Saturn will be bidding adieu to Leo and moving on to Virgo."

I got goosebumps when I read that part. If Saturn really was a shadow over my life, it leaving on September 2 is the best sign I could ever ask for. September 2 will be the first day of my bar exams. The last hurdle I must jump before the finish line. The race against time is on. Yes, that is why it means so much to me. Because it is only after it is over that I can truly begin again.

So wish me luck, readers and let me thank you for walking with me all this time.

your soul phantasm,

rax

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