this is untitled

leaving with no fuss is like
being buried in a warm blanket
with no edges or endings
wrapped in closed comfort for
the rest of time and all that remains
forgotten, happy, without complaints

but there are these threads:
people, places, tangible intangibilities
lifelong circuits of fading signals
running like currents in a rotting sea
waiting for the ocean to open a window
and dilute this drink of life

so here
I will stay
and wait for you
my eternal

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to my previous self

what is this we are doing who are you being and where are we going

were you the person I was before I became what I am now and have I forgotten you?

do our times meet or do we remain two separate parallel lines for the rest of what is, and have you grown away from me?

do our realities coexist or coincide or superimpose overlay and merge or do they flick and slither in the dust like two dying fishes?

or have we always been, two friends in disguise and two dualities of a singularity, attached to the other, like the rain and the wind?

what spaces do you leave when silence engulfs the air, leaving it pregnant with sign of death, what are the reasons for your concepts of good and evil?

where do we go from here, where do we come from, how do simple questions rally from the complexity of unity and when will I know?

when will I know the color of the self, the faces of the eternal, the light in the murk and the worth of my gold?

when will I know you, the I that speaks, and the voice that listens? the senses that collude, the marvels that fall beneath the horizon, only to speak in fission and dissapear into nothingness?

when will questions run out of fuel, when will time come to rest, and when will I sleep?

consolation

it’s okay to be a little bit crazy because nowhere is a place and that is where we’re all going. after this brief stop we’ll leave, so my eyes don’t rest for one moment when I’m here. in the darkest of nights I feel plagues arriving, storms filled with painful happinesses and wrenching sadnesses.

not knowing who I am is also okay, because I didn’t come here with my permission, and my voice is not heard unless I listen to it really carefully, and the more I try, i realise that it’s just echoes bouncing off caves within my skull.

not remembering the person I was might not matter either, because voices letting out glimpses of bright light can only be heard when I’m not being that but being this right here – this person I am now, and I will not be staying, because I will be arriving in just a moment, and that person will be me. I still do not know myself. because I’m gone as soon as I come. there is no time left in between to find out. if I ask I receive silence. if I stay silent I receive questions. maybe I should be silent for a little longer. a little wider. further.

so tell my mother that it’ll be okay, tell myself that I’ll be just fine, because I saw myself in the mirror today, just a speck that I was, so maybe it doesn’t matter much. and you can only see a speck when the sun shines at it, through it, in it, floating dust all going nowhere, flying through the corridor, waiting for itself. if it isn’t part of something, it is part of something else, and if it isn’t part of something else, it is part of itself. and that is what I’m made of. I might just be dust and sunlight.

Cold floor, warm winds

Life is about now…right now when you know you are alive, right now when you know that your heart is beating and you are breathing. When you know that you can hear music, and that the silence that enveloped you is also just as beautiful. For now, is when you are free, tomorrow is a promise of man, and yesterday is a question, but now is all you know is real for sure.

This is not a euphoric or transitional ponderance of existence and the metaphysical, but a matter of logic, of doubting the concept of time and reality.

Who are you, but yourself , and the great confusion of man called death…you and him, living this life, fighting forever, in grief and joy, till the very end, when you give yourself to your only friend. Nothing else is for real, not the people you meet, nor the food you eat; the only thing you know for sure that your path will cross the inevitable, like two lines that have diverted but are destined to meet for once and for all.

And who to fear in such circumstances, for the world is yours for the taking! All your dreams are not  dreams, and your vision has been faltering, until now! A parting curtain of fog, and behind it, an invisible abyss of darkness that swallows you, only to bring you happiness, that of the most elusive kind, that which you have never known!

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Good times bad times

Good times and basketball fields and grass everywhere and football in the sun at midday. And teachers and loud noises, and forgotten lessons. Carelessness and mathematics and fearlessness. And then there is now, which is a complex equation. Such a difference, the rethought and the the thought. Now and before. What a contrast. Black and nothing.

Where is the leaf, asked the summer. In the midst of winter, away from the pale blue bucketful of beer and sunshine. Washed over by a question that thrilled every leaf of grass. Where is the sky? And the sky opened up like a drop going down a funnel, and falling down a waterfall. Only this, this happened in one corner of my eye. Seeing and believing, then forgetting. Dead. Alive. Then dead again. And then a burst of stinging fireworks. In every inch of this that is. And some rhythm, and some colour, and a mighty mountain of light, and a tower of cotton bags. The smell of wet earth in the air, a halo of solved problems. Clarity. Just not momentarily. Distant. And present.

Ever feel alive? Ever feel like you are everything you need, and the oceans will rise and dance for you? Every fleeting moment, you live a hundred more, and so forth. There, and there, it fades out into a deception. It is all false. All is not real. Such is the nature of the truth and that which is not. Good comes and goes, and then bad comes, and then good, and then whatnot. Look out for signs. To learn where to go. What to be. And when to sleep.

Strange things

 

1

Why? Why different, why all the same? Why sound and noise? Why the wind and the dying? Why the good and the bad? And the flight, and the buried, the same? Why is there sense, and absurdity? Why do we only consider a half of reality while we ignore the other half? What is this deal about balance, and positivity, and negativity?

But why?

Why am I here, when everything is there? Why are you not here? Why am I here? Why is everything a drop of lightning in my mind, out of reach, like trying to catch a speck of dust in a desert storm? Who decided what the word impossibility meant? Who knew, what would come, and what should be? Will I know? Will I be myself as I long as I know myself? Will the clocks stop in my head also?

2

Yesterday I lost myself in one of the drops of rain that fell into the hat I was wearing. I woke up today in an ocean of infinity, not knowing where to go, what to do, or who to be. I was lost in a world without a compass. There were no lights in the sky. But I found a candlelight in my head – it was caught amid the falling snow. By now, I had submerged in a land of complete unknowing – confusion alighted like a wild fire and took over trees of turns and trifles.

But now, it is a world away- there is a bird in the sky, and it pours feathers of water onto Earth, and the Sun rises up and throws rays of diamonds into her eyes. She sings, and she sings through the plants, and through the trees. She sings in my head, and I can hear her voice echo through the labyrinth I was born in. It is a new day now.

3

In the morning, the sound of sunshine in my eyes. Nothing moves, and the day calls out for me. What pulls me out of this wandering iceberg that I am living on?

This world beneath my eyelids, or the one above? Wisps of smoke curl up with the scent of your hair and form a wall of beckoning. And then, the walk. The walk that goes out, out into the day, and the walk that says, none of this matters, go and get to yourself…

This Was Written On A White Wall

What is empty? What is nothing? What is left to be said when all is over? What is the sound of the air in the space between your words? What happens in sleep, in a grassland in your brain? What is beautiful there, and what is beautiful here? Who knows what happiness is? Is there such a thing as a dictionary? Am I here or am I part of a painting hanging in the walls of unknown eternity? When a point of time is as beautiful from the view that our concept of time gives us. The people have feet, and they walk in an endless pursuit of figuring out what to pursue. More so ever, I feel like I’m lost in a garden filled with the smell of the ocean under a flowering lemon tree in a place the I do not exists. Maybe I will stay, maybe I will go back, but right now, this moment is infinite, because it is where I live, and nothing else matters because the world you see comes from no place other than the inside of your brain. You gave birth to your reality-you baked it, and everything you see is your own creation. There are colors that you will see, those you will not, but they are all ropes from the sky for you to climb.