Skip to main content


On the top of mountains, as everywhere for hopeful souls,
it is always morning.

The hour is coming.

I have come to know this twilight. I know it so well and I understand what it means: that it is only a matter of time.

Most of the time I plead--no, beg--that it be so kind as to give me more time, enough time so I can finish what I have to finish, or what comes to the same, to begin what I have to begin. Just a little more time.

But I do not know of it listens or if it has pity and for that matter if it has a heart or if it has ears at all: it always comes at the right time--neither too early nor too late. It is indifferent to my time as it has its own time.

Because, really, what can postponement actually accomplish if it can never cancel it but only prolong it? Better now than later.

But I am not yet ready as I have miles and miles to go before I sleep. No matter, they are all the same: you will again walk that road when you wake up.

Have I not already slept the sleep of the just? No matter, better now than later.

Is this what I deserve by asking for more?--by asking that I carry more than I can suffer so that you may delight in my weakness and so that you may see my silent strength?

You didn't understand me then: what I wanted was something heavier. I never asked that you take this cross from me. Don't you remember?--I clearly said "deeper, deeper, deeper," because my feet are already on the ground and I want to remain waist-deep or submerged swimming in your hell as I carry your boulder. Because to walk on water is too easy. I want to swim.

Higher. Go higher.

But I have come to the peak of your icy mountain, I have filled my lungs with your thin air, where else do you wish that I go? The way up is the way down.

But I have known the land so well and now I want to swim in your air. No matter, they are all the same.

This is the twilight: to reach the peak where the sun never sets but to know in your heart that you must go down once again to where shadows feast and where despair prepares for its son's inevitable return.

If only I could stay here a bit longer. Just a little more time. I beg you.

. . .



  1. "For the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint. If it delays, wait for it, it will surely come, it will not be late." (Habakkuk 2:3)

  2. Martini Heidegger12/01/2007

    You must go down to the Piraeus! This will be your second sailing...

    But of course:

    "Zarathustra went down the mountain alone, no one meeting him."


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Fields of Amorsolo

The first National Artist in Philippine history, referred to warmly as the “Grand Old Man of Philippine Art,” Fernando Amorsolo (1892–1972) still stands today as a looming figure in Philippine art responsible for being one of the artists who helped define what we up to now visually imagine as essentially Filipino. The images of rural life, of golden fields below clear blue, blue skies; the smiles of farmers which diminish their weariness as they plant, harvest, and winnow rice;most especially the iconic figure of the Filipina maiden working in the fields—the beloved dalagang bukid--; these, I believe, even after generations of Filipino painters since Amorsolo, have remained in our hearts and memory. Amorsolo did what great masters do for their country: bestow upon it its own icons, represent its native beauty, that is, to give its people and lands an identity and a face. There are, however, as many intentions for art as there are works of art. And these intentions will always remain in…

Without Why (The Rose) II

Lifetime is a child at play; moving pieces in a game.
Kingship belongs to the child.

Heraclitus, Fragment 52

The child at play never asks itself why it plays. The child just plays; and if it could, it will play as long as possible, it will play throughout its life. See its delight and witness its smile.

If it would never go hungry or if the sun would never set it too will never leave its playmates and playthings. Time flies at play because it stops or suspends time. Time -- as we grownups only know too well -- is the culprit for order, schedules and priorities; yet for the child, there is no time, there is only bottomless play. It is we who impose that this or that should be done at this or that time. We stop the absurd and supposedly endless play ("He does nothing but play") because we insist that discipline, order and priorities be instilled in the child at an early age ("He needs to learn other things beside playing"). So that the child will become like us one da…

A Love Sooner than Later

BROWN PENNY William Butler YeatsI whispered, 'I am too young,' And then, 'I am old enough'; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. 'Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.' Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair. O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon.

One cannot begin to love too soon--conversely, one should not love too late or in life's demise. That waiting for the "right time," or the "right person" to love, what are these but the cries or sighs of an unready, even tired, heart? One becomes ready only when one begins to understand love slowly (or again), and one understands love progressively when one, simply, performs the act of love. Love, like mos…