Sunlight dappled the tree, making the dew on its delicate, almost wraith, leaves glisten. The green shined like a cluster of freshly-polished emeralds snuggled against the pale blue silk of the sky. With the soporific rhythm of the wind, the bejeweled tree danced languidly; its brown neck is poised proudly, slender and graceful like a swan's, aware of its striking beauty. Below, the lake mirrored this grandeur, its sparkles like pixie dust on the picture.

The Poet

Ice writes the most beautiful poems. He whips them up in a minute or two; I do not know how he does it. I know his poems are breathtaking in their beauty, but really, I do not understand them. I do not understand them, but really, I know that they are beautiful. I tell him that they are lovely like music, that I love them for their haunting melody. Still, I wonder how he feels, being with someone who does not understand. That must wrench his heart.

I wonder what it must be like to understand his poems. I wonder about the phantasmic truths his words hold.

What's for Dinner?

When I was still living in my parents' house, I dreaded dinnertime. We abhorred rice,my siblings and I, and dinnertime invariably meant rice. And so, dinners at our home became not really about the breaking of bread, but an endless tirade on (what we believed as) the poor quality food we were served. Oh, how we wallowed in self-pity. We have suffered for too long, after all.

Every single night, over yet another unpalatable meal, we would complain, endlessly, about the sheer incompetence of the (poor, unsuspecting) cook, and fantasize about pasta, and mashed potatoes, and burgers, and buttered vegetables-- anything, really, so long as it is not rice. Once in a while, one of us would snap out of his sluggishness and make our fantasy a reality. Often, this person would be my brother's girlfriend, who is actually quite the cook. We would then feast on the non-rice meal hungrily, like a pack of vultures. Those nights were the best.

Now that I am living independently from my family and can eat absolutely anything my heart desires, I have realized that my problem with dinner is, really, not so much rice, but the idea of having to sit down to meal at a specific hour every single night regardless of whether my tummy is already grumbling, or still full. My dinners in the past five months were rarely constituted of rice, and yet I still dreaded it with my whole being, much like how a hyperactive toddler dreaded bedtime. What I hated, I now realize, was the very concept of dinner. I apparently despise this routine. The toddler refuses to be tucked into bed at seven. He wants to sleep only when he is sleepy! Clarise refuses to be tucked into a dining chair at seven. She wants to eat only when she is hungry! Well, you know what? I think Clarise will do just that.

Declaration of Independence Item 1: Clarise shall eat only what she wants, only when she wants.:)