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

I
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?
II
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.
III
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.

Glassy Eyes

Right here, when sounds echo in my ears and pluck strings of longing. Where themes shift with the air moving around me, and words fail to give shape to the unsaid and the unsaid feels like an empty river. Filling my my stomach with smoke that drifts in wanton trails.

Right here, where people look like invisible bubbles made of nothing at all because they come from nothing. Hoping to pluck meaning out of chaos and to sustain the pace of my heartbeat in a dream that escapes the grip of my fingers  Cold granite rubs against you asking you to stay.

Right here, where a broken image is the beauty of perfection, like memories falling in line and falling out of line in an attempt to weave a mosaic of spontaneity. A glass bottle filled with a hundred shards of glass that reflect the picture of yourself back into the end of what you see.

My Invisibility Suit

Letting things be the way they are. Being an object of my present. Being the air I breathe and being the food I eat. Being the sound of my heartbeat. I am a product of what I am. What I am is what I do. I am the people I see and I am the words in my head. I am not the words in your head. I am not locked, I’m forever dispersing into a tunnel of infinity. Pieces coming and going and joining me only to leave me with blisters. Pieces coming in the same way to heal my blisters. I am happiness and sadness at the same time. Euphoria and despair at the same time. I revel in my victories and cry at my losses. I live in a house of glass.I see and touch everything I see but I will never know the true meaning of anything. I live in an eternally unsolved mystery, which takes me right into the face of the answer and then slices me up into the darkest matter. What are you, though? Do you see me sitting here, in this chair? Do you see a mirror in my eyes? Are your eyes made of mirrors too? Could we possibly be the same person? Will you come with me when only the last hair of the weakest rope separates me from falling into the abyss of my nightmares? What do you mean when you say good morning? Do we truly wake up? Do you hear me? This cave is endless, sounds keep bouncing off the walls even after they die. I can smell the water here, it is very dark to look at, and it tells me that it will tell me the truth. But what should I know of the water? Water shows the hidden heart, she said. Water will fill you up, and then it will drown you. Water can talk. In sounds of the most beautiful orchestra that sends you plunging into the deep and the cold and the austere, into what you do not know, so that you can know what you want to know. What did the water tell you? The water told me, your journey is your destination.

Permafrost

Confusion is a person who comes to attack you in your weakest moments. It is a person with a hundred limbs and a manipulative mind that injects poison into the calmest areas of your brain and make them rot until they die. The antidote for confusion is murder of yourself. Kill yourself with cold emotion, and wait in time to grow again. Starting as an infant and slowly, ever so slowly growing up and becoming every other thing but what you were when you were born. Presently, new enemies will appear,waiting to eat you up like the previous ones. Only that the pain will not subside at every stage, it will grow on you, like a wildfire that fuels itself. Noise and hatred are children of confusion. But, wait! Wait patiently for the best of them! Wait to reach the end of yourself, where you fade out, where you become that absolute opposite of yourself. That which you have been so wary of is yourself now.

Brief Listening

In between

In between

Hear the trees talking. The wall, the sand, the leaves of grass, everything hears the wind. There is life in motion. It is in the wind. It comes and goes, and no one sees it, but we feel its presence. And hear a hundred other things, like the music of footsteps at a crowded junction at rush hour or the sound of your eyelashes striking your skin and the sound of your heart beating in sync with the celestial dance of our dreams in space.

Clarity is Confusion

Night lights

The adoption of an early kind of sickness starts in tumors in the brain. Because when you think of something, anything, an idea, it eats you up in a fashion similar to that of piranhas chopping off human limbs in a neat wipe.

Away from reality we seek too face a number of situations, infinite in number to be precise, and we lose sight of the end. This is a pursuit that we are always engaged in, from birth till death. After a point, everything slows down and reality becomes incomprehensible to a normal person. But what is normal no one will ever know. because change is a factor multiplying at the rate of exponential values that are themselves multiplying at huge exponential values, such as to transcend a speed that only comes with the realization that nothing is real and no one escapes anything. We die. A slow death, amounting from a fast life. This is a need, to balance the experiences of matter in the universe. Like the seesaw or the yin yang. Perpetual motion has its own limitations (in terms of time rates and relative rates). An effort is continuous in partaking of the many blockages of vision that hinder us from reaching a certain visual and mental height. In other words, a chemical release. Endorphins surging through your body in an effort to maintain position in the beginning of a never ending race. Here comes your end. You may now fade out into nothingness and oblivion for the rest of your life.

 Goodbye existence.

 This is impossibility speaking.

Water makes the mind

Adrift.

Adrift.

Let us run in a cannibalistic course in the river of the mountain which consists of several tulips and some misunderstood language that take over the world when they are dispersed.
It is funny when the monkeys swirl in a pond they erupt over the mountain in beautiful swirls of blue and yellow and free. Various colors erupt from the following of the plantain of happiness. Our understanding maybe the opposite but we all see the same reality. Various misconceptions of the understanding of time in our personal spaces is not a misguidance of the apple tree that flows away when they rise to the Sun. Some intense hallucinations shall bewilder you in the course pif the awesome music when we listen to it and read upon the hills is it sunny in the days of tomorrow is it.