Particular Moments

More Stars than There are

Tag: compassion

Compassion Only

“A heart does not break; it goes on beating.” 

—Dr. Joe Gallenberger.

Significance in Obscurity

“Our significance isn’t found in fame or fortune, but in knowledge that we have been links in the great Cosmic chain. Our faithfulness, even in obscurity, will yield results that can only be calculated in eternity.” 


On Love & Hate

“Hate is not the opposite of love. Apathy is the opposite of love.”



“Why are you so determined to keep me alive?” The man, whose face was completely mangled by severe burns, asked feebly.

“Because I’m a nurse.” Juliet replied, easy and succinct.

Dare Not

Say “Thank you so much for your understanding,” or “You are so nice!”—for my extension of kindness and empathy arises mostly from insufferable personal defects.

I like being the helping hand; doing so grants me an alternate sense of purpose, which I mainly deploy to escape from my own fatal flaws and obstacles.

My obligate alliance with an often-times unconditional compassion is rooted, like an oxymoron, in absolute cruelty. Prior to witnessing the finer and more praiseworthy virtues in all, instincts drive me to instead, first explore each and everyone’s deepest vulnerabilities and darkest fears. The innate knack for understanding how to scar a human beyond the point of his/her recovery, is all mine. It is due to my fear of these racing, caustically detrimental insights, that I strive to behave in the other polar-extreme.

As if a sponge, my essence and motivation lie largely external—intrinsic incentives do not nearly invoke the same type of joy in me:

Allow me into your life, love, so I would finally have a reason to improve myself—count on me, so I could help myself to be of most efficient and useful help to you.

This is my constant mentality. No needs from those around me, and I become stagnant and putrid, an cesspool of all lamentable human qualities.

I hate but need and crave to be used. Give me the illusion of being exclusively needed; give me the eventual misery of being exploited. I love it all. I love it all because otherwise I have no excuse to live—the greatest gift of all, most days is but a joke.

I’ve got a thing; I’ve got a thing resembling the defining feature of stereotypical introverts: heightened sensitivity to external stimuli. In this case, a personally predisposed concentration on all sentiments.

Rationality: to be a writer, one must successfully to become not one, but many—the causal relationship between the two skills is arguably and easily interchangeable. 

In public quarters, I feel the Many. The urges and frustrations and anticipations and ecstasies and passions and sorrows of all presence in sight—their so-called “vibes” and “energies,” like the very air which we all share, saturate the large, empty vessel within, and I become, without free-will, the Many. AND THEY CLASH AND BOUNCE FIERCELY IN MY CURSED CHEST TO ITS BRINK OF UNATTAINABLY BURSTING INTO CRIMSON PIECES.

Inspect my countenance: absent-minded, aloof, even pretentiously in bad taste—reality says I’m hiding, suppressing, desperately swallowing the Many, so I won’t collapse.

You must understand…human emotions, they are nothing but heavy. I feel my senses crushed dumb by such thick density—short circuiting the designed tolerances of my making, overheating and exhausting it towards the verge of being fried, beyond saving.  

Because of this, in the face of those desolate and needy and decrepit (even if seemingly), their dark stains I feel perfusing into my preferred blank sheet. Thus, out of a selfish need to rid of their emotional imprisonment over me—to temporarily erase the good troubled conscious,  I am urged into “goodwill” and “niceness,” dropping my task at hand, tending to the tragedy at their hands, and frequently in futile attempt, to put them, and me, at ease.



Faith in Ideal


True divinity is the condensation of an universal, collective consciousness that is rooted in compassion, peace, and wisdom. The worshipping of such is silent and solitary, yet free from all self-serving ends. Each spiritual experience is personal, distinct from another, and should not be judged upon or meddled with—each soul ought to strive to become conscious of the divinity that is itself. 

Faith shall not be underlined by the conventional, repressive dogma that is advocated by manipulative creeds—no shrine or temple aspire to the process of mankind care-taking for nature, nor do they avert the human civilization from falling deeper into the de-evolutionary notions of oppression and power.

The divine comprises no absolute messiahs, instead, it constitutes an all reaching awareness that which rescues each being by inspiring it towards greater intents.

Feigned Virtues

You walk under a

Proud banner,

Convicted of your vast,

Good Kindness

That none shall conceive

With ease—


But who kills


Second thoughts?


“For they are vermin—

The slaughtering of whom

Is only justified”


You rationalize,

Carrying another banner

With your quick hands,

Not knowing

You are


Larger Vermin.



In the face of defeat and adversity, have you falsely convinced yourself much too stern?

Turning a blind eye to sentimentality, are you truly the strong, or merely the broken and the lost, disguising themselves behind the bloated exterior of strict functionality? Mixed in with a few splashes of angst and fury?

Are you sick to death, of having tenderness, your mighty strength, mistaken for cowardice & gullibility? So much so, that in effort to avert it, that you have lost yourself in rigidness?

What are you really afraid of, feeling constantly exposed, or eventually turning irrevocably numb?




In the light of recent events, I have perhaps appealed too much to stiffness, and forgot that tears, during special occasions, are necessary. The rain comes down with all its inconveniences, but it causes the desert to bloom again.

Swimming Bird, Misunderstand me Not


I walk in a blindfold,

Most days

I do not save

What’s Right from foul.



I work in the Dark,

So my Callings

Never grow strong.


I am merely

A creature of stubborn habits,

Destroying the body

All year round.




Turn your back not.


As bare are these flaws,

Deformed is this bag

Of brittle bones

That scantly moves along—


Oh my Kin,

Brother and Sister,

Have Faith in me,

For my Compassion sits

Like an endless Well.


If thirst shall befall,

I will not

Let you down.


Confide in my Embrace,

Oh Love,

For I only write

Of Tenderness & Hope

In your song—


My affection is

A stream that runs

Forever long.


Won’t you see,

Swimming Bird?

You have

Gotten me

All wrong.


Only Human

There are moments

When goodness turns into malice

And fair intent sours.

During these brief moments,

I am

On occasions,

Crazed, eyes blood shot

On Thirst,

Bent on achieving not some,

But grudgingly

All the satisfactions.


So I turn to the Dark,

To the face of damnation.

And I see in the sinister

A terrible,



From which arises

The careless power

To quench my crooked needs—


To be the Golden Apple

Atop the highest pinnacle—

Divine, poisonous,

Rotten, and ageless;

Desired by all

And fatal—


Thus, I take a sip

From the deadly well.

And Soon,

I am overcome

By a restless adrenaline

Immense to the point of



Suddenly, it is revealed to me

Just what a thrill it can be

To put on the Devil’s facade

And play the laughing wicked.


I decide to take to the slaughter,

And Oh!

How are they so belittled!

As if a gentle “tap,”

And they are torn apart!




I move closer—


Seeing this lot,

These lambs to be butchered,

Standing and grazing there—

Mostly unwary;

Some a nuisance;

Some even vicious.




Regardless of the little good

And much foolishness I see,

They are all familiar,


More or less

Like me—

Undeniably human, limited,

And only so vile.


Then how could I strike down

The the ruthless sword

Knowing that I

Too am

Helplessly mortal

And bound to the ground?