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



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?


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.


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…