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5.6k · Nov 2015
Midnight
Nae Ayson Nov 2015
(I'm trying to outrun the rain)
(It's so humid.)
It's like the sky is trying to hold something back
and now she's starting to cry.

(Realized how much I missed walking at night.)

She waits until half the world's asleep.
The sky?
And then confides to the earth
Because everyone is fearless in the night.

But they're gentle loving tears,
and the earth catches her.
There is no daylight to mar the distance between them with shadows.

She's not mad.
And quietly, she tells the earth her secrets--
all that she has seen when the sun was by her.
and the earth listens.
intently.
thoughtfully.

Doesn't the earth whisper back?
Doesn't it have its own secrets to share?

No.
but that was always enough.
the sky never needed an answer,
she just needed the clouds to part.
because somehow the sky always knows.
like a sister never needing words.
she cries tears not hers alone.
she mourns for the earth who can never cry.

The sky and the earth have never really been apart,
have they?
But the night is theirs
and theirs alone,
its silence unbroken
by the noise of human minds.
And the few people who walk the night let them.

no, they never were.
nor were they ever together.
what would the sky be if she was the earth?
or the earth the sky?
they were inseparable
and yet
always separate.

infinities between them.
and in each infinity
are the worlds of dreaming children
and for a moment, she stops crying.

and in the silence,
a child continues walking.

Do they have to be the same?
Can they not leave a gap between them
and still stay together?

the child is not alone,
and never was.
he is joined by many others who
walk the night
with him.
some
with open eyes,
others
breathing in rhythm.
and in the boundlessness between the earth and the sky,
they are all connected.

The child does not walk in silence.
He knows the night,
has seen all its faces
of terror
and beauty
and torment
and dreams.

dreams that each the sky has seen.

With the earth and the sky's secrets
woven into each:
a present for a friend.

the sky has ceased crying.
and in the wake,
her tears flow into the heart of the earth.
and the earth collects them,
that the sky may weep them out again.

Then the earth is not silent after all.

quiet, but not silent.

the child thirsts
and finds the tears the sky has wept.
but they are too bitter for him to drink.

They were never meant for him,
The sky carries far greater burdens
than any earthling can bear,
secrets far too powerful for his mind to comprehend.
Not yet, anyway.

silence

and in it
the earth sings to the sky.
the earth [sings] for the earth cannot speak.
and the sky wells up in the beauty of the song.

And the child sits in between them,
absorbing the music.
Selah
Let the universe pause a moment.
Let it breathe.

for a time will be reached
when the child shall share in the cup
of sky's tears.
he too,
shall have no more questions.
but until then,
the child walks.

And until then,
he is a child.

The child walks into a neighborhood of lights.
with hues too numerous
for him to name or even distinguish,
each one desperately tries to outshine his brother.
and the lights see him
and greet him--
an unwelcome visitor.

How so?

for under the lights
are other children:
blinded but seeing,
they have sight with much illumination,
but are lost without a vision.
the child walks among them
but they don't see him,
for he is not their own.
the lights captivate
and held captive
they were.
the child calls out to them
but they cannot hear.

for these are children
who listen with their eyes
and feel with their tongue.
each follows a different light--
the ones that have so rejected the child.
but it changes nothing
for the child
follows a different light,
the light the sky has shown hi,.

They are trapped
in the pretense of day,
in the false promise that everything is within their sight.
And they
somehow
believe
that all they see is theirs.
They know not how to travel in the shadows,
because they
have never befriended the night.

they have never seen
the weeping of the sky, nor
heard the singing of the earth.

It is in the night
that one learns to listen,
to eavesdrop
on the secrets
the sky and the earth
whisper
as the universe sleeps.
Though not without their notice.

they whisper loud enough for those who want to hear.

And for those who have earned their respect.
Some drag them
into the scorching gaze of sunlight,
and cast shadows
large enough
strong enough
to swallow hearts whole.

(Say hello to the night for me. I missed its embrace.)
(the night waits still)
Here's to the few sabaw midnight conversations we have stashed away in places other than our memories.

"So when was the last time you tried something you knew you'd probably regret but did it anyway?
wanderlust + caffeine. bad combination."
You might, but I don't.
I might regret posting this one, though. Sorry not sorry for sharing your art, your heart. Sorry for not asking you beforehand. I know the title doesn't do it justice.

(Your name shouldn't be a footnote, but I don't know if I'd leave it up there. So here: Help, God is my judge. Dreamer. Visionary.)
1.2k · Aug 2015
Superlatives
Nae Ayson Aug 2015
She is the sweetest
The loveliest
The warmest
The kindest
Person I'll ever know

Who never wavered
In the weirdest
In the craziest
In the wildest
Moods and rotten days

Who holds my hand
In the the darkest
In the scariest
In the toughest
Times I've ever faced.

She dives the deepest
She goes the furthest
She fights the fiercest
Holds out the longest
For her prince and princesses.

That's why she is
The angriest
And the maddest
And the saddest
When I keep settling
For less than best.

She cheers me on
With a smile that is the brightest
With a love so selfless
With support so endless
That never changes
In every rise and every fall

When everything is hopeless
Her faith is the biggest
Still so fearless
Points to the Greatest
Who is the Reason for it all

She cries the hardest
She hurts the deepest
She's the most imperfect
The most human person I know

Still I'm using all the superlatives
Because she deserves the best
She's my mom
And I love her so.

After all the years of service
Your mom deserves a rest
It's her turn to be the princess
And remind her that she's
The sweetest
The kindest
The loveliest
The warmest
The noblest
And that in all these years so tireless
Countless lives were touched and blessed.
Another throwback! This one's for Mother's Day 2014. It was read as a tribute to all the mothers in ECF.
1.2k · Aug 2015
Graffiti Moon
Nae Ayson Aug 2015
He and she stood side by side
Under the twinkling stars
Under the ghost in the jar
He and she stood side by side
Under the graffiti moon.

He and she danced palm to palm
To the rhythm of their art
To the music of their hearts
He and she danced palm to palm
Under the graffiti moon.

He and she saw heart to heart
In the darkness’ embrace
In the midst of hidden praise
He and she saw heart to heart
Under the graffiti moon.
Wrote this as an entry for a Cath Crowley giveaway. Didn't make it because of the time difference, but she emailed me to tell me it was wonderful. Feb 2012.
1.0k · Jul 2015
Grace
Nae Ayson Jul 2015
Can they not see the
sweat dripping
and the blood soaking
the wood it keeps staining
and the thorns piercing
through the hair matting
in the heat?
Flesh was hanging
on nails drilling
clean through bones struggling
to hold up a man gasping
“It is finished.”

The darkness cloaking
the world mocking
its King they kept rejecting.
In His death, rejoicing,
as He hung there dying
and in the darkness bearing
all our shame and gathering
up our brokenness and bearing
the price of our sins and daring
to go against demon guardians grinning
shameless as they kept defying
the King of Kings.

But no heavenly or earthly being
nor beast or devil or phantom floating
could ever stop Him from breaking
the chains of sins and suffering.
No past was too dark or disgusting
to be held up to the light He was offering,
no shame too hopeless and past redeeming,
or stain too stubborn to resist His cleansing.
No man too low, no man deserving,
and no man too high to earn this blessing.

He came; He loved, never stopped pursuing
the world. For the lost searching
for the truth, the empty craving
love, He spared nothing,
not even His Son and sending
Him to the cross, to a death humiliating.

All for love, all for reconciling
a people wayward and lost and bumbling
in the darkness, to His welcoming
arms. All for His children, angels celebrating
their return to the Father.
Weeping.
Rising.
Praising.
Proclaiming
"We are home."
The first stanza was originally written posted on Tumblr on March 19: http://escapistblunders.tumblr.com/post/114040532440/grace
751 · Sep 2015
Remnants
Nae Ayson Sep 2015
How do I capture the air?
How do I bottle the free?
It moves to its own beat;
it dances to its own music.
How do I capture the air?
(You talked to a writer, bro smiley)

(hahahaha)
You force it into your lungs, and pray it stays till you can breathe it into me.

How can I hold it in that long?
It will die inside me before I could ever reach your door,
and I will die before I could see
our meeting place
your shadow at the end of the road
Just the merest hint
that I'm this close.
But I can't.
I can't cross that distance.
I can't see you,
because death will tear us apart,
because of my foolish pride,
because I dared tried
to capture the air.

Then death should be the sweetest thing to touch your lips, next to the air that brought u[s] together and tore us apart.
This is from a series of screenshots of a Messenger thread long gone, with this particular exchange taking place around mid-June to late July 2014. Line breaks indicate a change in speaker. It started as a pasalubong joke, but yeah :)) I hope you're okay. Thank you for the art.
553 · Jul 2015
Untitled
Nae Ayson Jul 2015
I

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is for the present and for the future I might have seen and for the future that might be and for the future that will be.

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is for the us that might be and for the us that will be and for the us that might never be.

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is a promise.
This is a dream.

This is a memory
Remembered five years too early,
Seen seven years too soon.

This is for me,
For the hearts I guard and for the promises I claim and for the faith that will not waver.
For the days I remember and the days I don’t remember and the days I hate to remember.
For the nights I’m up and wondering and the nights I’m up and screaming and the nights I’m out and dreaming.
For the times I lose my focus and the times I lose my strength and the times I lose my center.

If this is for you,
and one day we might be and will be,
and one day you might be and will be
standing here with me,
please wait with me.

It might be and will be and might never be.
So please wait with me.

Still I will hold on to the One I know who was
and is and will be and will forever be.
This is for me.

II

This is a story
pursued five years too early,
forced seven years too soon.

This is written
with divine hands and not mine,
without the constraints of my human mind.

This is His dream,
not a dead scientist's
ramblings on what it is and what will be and what might be and what might never be.
We are but madmen,
ranting and raving and crying
and losing our voices to the wind.

This is His story,
not yours, not mine.
This is His call,
not yours, not mine.

Should we end up on the same page,
molded with the same ink,
and finally be,
then we will think of the title together:
             a phrase,
             a word,
             in essence:
                   He was and is and will be.

 But we are on different books,
 led to different lines,
 caught up in our own whirlwinds of words.

The rest remains unwritten.

And so I wait.
Added the second half on August 11, 2015, then called Schrodinger's Dreams
Messy version on escapist blunders, entitled Promise.
348 · Aug 2015
Volume 18
Nae Ayson Aug 2015
Here is
a journal,
a pen.
Here are
blank pages.
Here is
the ink.
Here is
a story;
Chapter one
begins.

What kind of stories
will forever be
written
cherished
remembered
in indelible ink?

May they be beautiful;
may they be bright.
May they be read by many,
Inextenguishable light

written by a
steady Hand:
strong
majestic
sure
loving
sealed by the King,
signed by the Dad.
Throwback! Written for my friend Abby's 18th birthday. July 27, 2014.

— The End —