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 reflects the picture of yourself back into the end of what you see.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 of the awesome music when we listen to it and read upon the hills is it sunny in the days of tomorrow is it.
The invention of people is a wonderful creation. Machines that have learnt not how to understand one another due to narrowed outlooks but ever so marveled by everything else. This void ends up affecting us individually and publicly in ways that we fail to perceive, also due to limitations in our senses that we have to transcend.