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My mistakes and the cross

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Too often our mistakes  bring us to the brink of making a pledge  to stop writing  for fear that we will not be  able to write anything completely error-free  anymore. This malady regularly besets me everytime I write poems, songs, columns, and essays despite my self-imposed diligence  and meticulousness in reviewing them over and over again. What’s disheartening, frustrating, and embarrassing thing about mistakes is, you always notice them after your manuscripts have been published, most common of which are wrongly spelled words, redundancy, and infractions of grammatical rules.

The only consolation is, I am not alone and that my mistakes are not as premeditated, heinous and unforgivable as those committed by Caiaphas, Herod, and Pilate who conspired to kill even their own Creator and cleverly made it appear that it was the bloodthirsty crowd’s demand that He be crucified .

Because writing is my passion, I seem to have surprisingly developed a kind of tolerant co-existence with mistakes  although cautious enough not to breach the ethics governing this literary art. I know my journey toward achieving a modest niche in the highly competitive domain of letters could be tortuously difficult.

Notwithstanding the reality that I can’t in my unguarded moments, avoid committing mistakes in earnest pursuit of my literary endeavor, still I feel    so fortunate and heartily thankful to God that my cross is not as heavy and rugged as that of Jesus who agonizingly carried it along the 14 uphill stations toward Golgotha, the biblical name of His place of crucifixion with only Simon giving assistance as forced by the soldiers when our Savior could no longer rise from his fall to continue His Via Crucis.  Besides, only the hypocrites claim they are infallible.

Now, please allow me to get down to brass tacks.

A  crippled dove chances upon a flickering beam clinging to a mongolian moon; it’s  the biggest phenomenon to rock the horizon; in the expanding black hole a winged predator plucks out the last ember and crushes it into bits indiscernible; casts them across the galaxies to incite a firestorm of interstellar chaos; its force unleashes fury tidal in magnitude leaving nothing but unrecognizable fragments strewn like melting cubes of dreams dangling against an apocalyptic cosmos.

At the crossroad gallows hangs motionlessly the destiny we share; brainless centurions take full control amid the mutiny of wisdom and the upheaval of reason; freedom at most, is just an illusion.

Against the rubble of seasons, dances a fleet of fireflies in perfect harmony with  the lunar tide perpetuating the forbidden sawmill festival as the vampires suck in lustful hunger the elixir of life.

A hal-naked street urchin shuttles from vehicle to vehicle for coins unmindful of the scorching equatorial sun; it’s certainly an agonizing grind for survival; a common heart-rending scene no one wants to see in a land of inexhaustible bounty which can afford to sustain a never-ending war and a perpetual regalian  waltz  for peace even in foreign lands.

There’s too much frenzy over matters that should have been done long time ago, hoping that in its maze will spring  miracle solutions to chronic and incurable afflictions of today’s  “standing room only” civilization.  It reminds us of a wizard who succeeded in superimposing the present and the future with the blindfold of antiquity, and fitting a square peg in a round hole. Lately, I even saw one trying to transfer volumes of water to a container that is already filled to the brim. Both of course, are hoaxes in reality.

A scarecrow sets up a crystal rainbow to herald an equinoctial dawn; suddenly insues another passover plague arising from the blood ritual of the cannibals; again, we all dine on the carcass of yesterday singing a ninny’s lullaby as the red tide rises to devour all that is left of our civility and wisdom.

It’s our well deserved penance for all our wickedness and habitual disregard for the redemptive and immutable sonata  of the cross. (By Clem M. Bascar)




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