Reflective Essays and Poetic Musings by Condemiang + Stories About the World

A resting place where my soul may sit or lie Where a gentle shadow lays its steady trace Day or night A story I can lean on and listen always One who holds within Like brushing leaves from a bench Even if it be but the lightest burden of passing time I long to run to you to lift it away O Thee

She looked at me and—wove and offered a smile. Like a snow-white angel. ...I was poor, and all I had were dreams, So I laid my dreams beneath your feet. -W.B. Yeats-

She came to me. And at that moment, she became the only being that bore color in that place.

Love of my life, I'm here, just a little distance from you. I can smell your breath, and I can hear your smile. Look at me—just for a moment— before you burn out. You, the endless whisper of my life. We cross the one-third line, from time to time. I rushed out to see the sunset—pure gold after the pouring rain. And to see your face. And to breathe you in.

Friends, look to the heavens—the ones we can see with our own eyes. But we do not truly see them. It is with the eyes of the mind that heaven comes into view.

I've never seen such a mystic panorama. It looks like your lips—but it's too cold. It looks like your nails—but it's too soft against my back.

A Gothic-style church near the Royal Pavilion in Brighton, England. Beyond the small branches, like our anguish and agony, the former splendor once enjoyed by George IV is being obscured. They say nothing lasts forever in this world,  but if you think about it,  there is nothing truly finite either.  For we shall wander again  in another river,  another soil,  and  in countless other forms. Yet after coming to know  a still and unwavering eternity  through your death,  we have come to understand  just how trivial  that splendor and majesty,  hidden by mere branches,  truly is.

Dance like no one is watching Sing like no one is listening Love like you have never been hurt before Work like you don't need money Live like there is no tomorrow -Alfred D'Souza- Dance, song, love, work, and an attachment to life— Too humble to say that I’ve enjoyed them, but when I look back, They are nothing but the most precious words. How much have I enjoyed, And how much will I enjoy? What are you worrying so much about? Are those people, in their many thoughts and forms, dwelling in times filled with dance, song, love, work, and attachment? I am reminded of that bald man sitting in a worn-out pub, with a glass of beer in front of him, lost in his worries.