That’s not me who you see. That’s where I live. It’s not me who walks on those sidewalks, who goes up and down the stairs. It’s not me who crosses the street. It’s not me who looks at you. It’s what I look through. It’s where I live now. That’s where my eternity is put into boundaries. I’m in the `someday` and breathe through the `always`. I ramble. I gamble with the things my body does, so that I could stay here among you a little longer. Bodies are taught in dependence, whereas I had no teacher. I am the original sense, I am the authentic vibe. The common vibe. The one that goes between me and you, him and her, and then between all of us, and then….
I lost everything today and I haven’t felt more alive. In the endlessness. Fragment and defragment. You lose things in your touch with bodies. Something in the way I exist makes people feel doubtless. I got too close to what my body was doing and I got wounded by the mediocrity of the feelings it gets. Reason comes after, if it comes at all. I got lost in reason once. That’s when I start losing the vibe but it did not lose me. It came after me and got me by the hand, and then I smiled with a smile only closed eyes can see, and then I breathed again infinitely, and then…
I look at the wind and it reminds me what I am. I am ephemeral, I am eternal. I am here and I’m there. I’m too young in time to care. I only know how to dare cross all the lines they draw, and all the fields, all the mountains, all the seas and then…
I see the size of colours
The scope of the vibe.
The great escape.
Leave a comment | tags: art, author, blog, body, ephemeral, eternity, literature, november, people, reason, soul | posted in Literature
These little black dots just came out of their oblivion. They try to form themselves again on the other side. I like that try, I like that someday in which it all be worthy. But the message will never arrive, the birds dropped it in the ocean of forgetfulness. The idea is gone. But look at the people. Ever since you can see you look at them. But see them. Feel them. They don’t want what they got, but they also don’t want what we have in mind to give them. It’s only a silence of actions. You can’t live in a corrupt society and be still. You can only dance. It’s a representation of a thought that sometimes arrives more than late. And you dance. You dance on the sound of screams and in the background are their horrified faces. You can’t deny what lives inside your voice. You cannot escape what wants to live through your voice. And they don’t have a clue. You hold the clue on every step of your dance. But the ground beneath you cracks because of the power of their voices and the horror. And I don’t like what they do to you. I don’t like the trend. They are only there to breed guilt in your mind. This city is the pearly elitism of our fleeting time here. If we walk ourselves out of the economic system, the birds will still be flying, but the voices will still be heard too. We cannot wash away entire lifetimes. You cannot search for the message in the ocean that’s not yours. Unfair, we are not where we want to stand tonight. Unfairly, we are too close to the ground to stand up so easily. It’s just sad. Because people can be bad in so much more aspects than those in which they allow themselves to be good. That’s why they keep falling. Like leaves. But we cannot keep them from falling on the ground. No one is strong enough to fight the inevitable.
Leave a comment | tags: art, blogging, economic system, inspiration, literature, news, november, people | posted in Literature
Get on your knees, it’s time to play
a game that no one wins.
Just be careful not to break your chin
in the circle of fate where everything spins.
Leave a comment | tags: art, artist, book, freedom, game, inspiraion, literature, november, play, poetry, writer, writing | posted in Poetry
I want to wander and find my freedom again. Feel my freedom. I always had it and now when something is taking it away from me I feel trapped.
‘There’s nothing worse than an uninspired artist,’ he told me once. Live off. Live by. Live through.
‘You are over so many things,’ he declared.
‘I don’t know what am I over and who is lying under me, but this has nothing to do with pride,’ I responded. He laughed because he knew were the same.
Leave a comment | tags: art, feel, freedom, inspiration, literature, november, pride, understand, writer, writing | posted in Literature