Viata – episodul n377x478t

Vand lumea intreaga pentru o firmitura de absolut

Cersesc moarte cu lacrimi de jar

Las mostenire multa sudoare

Si oceane adanci de iubire neimplinita

Exist dar nu traiesc, doar visez

Se nasc visuri exilate din prea multe griji

Contorsionate de limitari

Uitarea ma scapa de pacate

Doar sangele imi fierbe mizeria in suflet

In pirueta pivotez spre trecut

Sa ma hranesc cu struguri acri

Am nevoie de linistea unei priviri de inger

De vindecarea unui Te Iubesc!

De un cer senin si de o imbratisare calda de vant.

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These dreams

All of a sudden I begin to question my dreams, my fantasies. Not them as in content but them as in location. Obviously they fade away too fast but I question where do they fade to?

As a fantasy about my fantasies I dream that they go to some place for some sort of storage. I sometimes almost feel like they are stored in some sort of a bank and each dream is a deposit. As soon as it fades away it is amounted to all my other dreams. It all feels like immense wealth. Probably it is. So far this is the closest I could ever be to being extremely wealthy.

At a second glance, another thought comes to mind: these dreams have never been real although they express the “realest” me. Who knows my dreams? Who knows the real me? Sharing dreams is so intimate. Perhaps this will become a proper definition of love: the one you love is the person that knows all your dreams. The one you trust with the most intimate fragments of all that defines you.

How many people, by this definition, have found love? Not so many as most of the dreams, the fantasies involve the person you love. And that elevates the game to a whole new level of intimacy. And then another – dreaming together.

Comparing our dreams to what happens in real life we find an immense discrepancy. Reality is so boring and limited. Sometimes even tiresome. And this feeling amplifies as I advance in age.

Perhaps the ultimate fantasy, if there could ever be such thing, is to live the full on realities that I have sketched all along the course of my life.4

cateodata

o surprind in fragmente de exuberanta
o dulce speranta indoaie durerea ruginita
visul plange lacrima de cristal in care prevesteste viitorul etern
prezentul se arata surprins de rasucirea clipei
sorbind apele adanci ale indestularii fericirea apare
rasare bucuria direct din sufletul neatins de mizeria lumii
fosnetul dat de boarea vantului aduce aroma indestularii
carnea nu mai plange separare
reunirea deplina isi regaseste in sfarsit nemarginirea
clipa isi pierde umbrele trecute si viitoare
profunzimea este in final acasa
privirea cuprinde promisiunea orizontului
sufletul intrece perceptiile simturilor
desuetul si inovatia isi dau mana in echilibrul creativitatii
umbrele indoielii se pierd in lumina cunoasterii care intrece credinta
cuvintele isi pierd sensul in definirea absolutului
sistemele de referinta sunt perimate de limitele proprii
blandetea ingroapa tot ce era neinteles
o atingere blanda exorcizeaza tot raul
viata, contopire, moarte, renastere in eternitate

 

Intorsatura

M-am nascut pe acesta lume cu o stare de surprindere si apreciere pentru toate lucrurile din jurul meu. Asta a fost inceputul vietii mele. Gradual lucrul asta s-a schimbat. In locul diminetilor pline de speranta si entuziasm pentru noua zi care tocmai a inceput, in locul amiezilor in care soarele se ascundea dincolo de frunzele copacilor, in locul serilor in care energia noptii facea totul incitant s-au strecurat usor schimbarea. Totul avea potential ce trebuia implinit. O promisiune a ceva mai mult si mai complet. Ceva de descoperit “cand ma voi face mare”. Ca un spectator priveam personajele din viata mea si decorul impresionant. Cautam sa invat. De la oricine, orice. Nu stiu de ce. Probabil era o sete de mai mult si de implinire care trebuia sa se intample undeva intr-un viitor care parea cat se poate de promitator. Descopar acum ca nu a fost deloc asa. Nu era vorba de un potential ce prevestea un viitor plin de o satisfactie divina (o asociere de cuvinte cat se poate de nepotrivita) ci era vorba de un declin. Momentul maxim de implinire a fost copilaria in acele clipe in care simteam ca mai este mult pana voi atinge varful implinirii.

Si totusi ce s-a intamplat? De ce asa? Unde este potentialul pe care il tot simteam? Unde este profunzimea sperantei de implinire…? Profunzime. Asta e o afectiune cu care m-am nascut. Mai mult un blestem decat o binecuvantare. Intr-o lume care s-a dezvaluit mai superficiala decat as fi putut banui vreodata in imaginatia mea de copil profund patrunsa de speranta, este greu sa supravietuiesti cand sufletul tau cauta ceva ce nu poate fi gasit.

Declinul s-a desfasurat gradual, in doze abia suportabile insa necontenit. Si ma trezesc acum lovit de intrebarea: unde ma aflu? Nu ca spatiu ci ca parcurs emotional intre punctele A zi Z ale vietii. Totul se intoarce mereu catre neimplinire si lipsa de satisfactie. Asta e marea surpriza. Realizarea ca exista un trend. Lucrurile pe care le iubeam in copilarie si in adolescenta pier din sufletul meu. Nu pentru ca nu au cum sa supravietuiasca acolo ci pentru ca sunt evacuate fortat de alte evenimente ale vietii. Am ajuns sa ma despart cu neputinta de cine eram, de vise, speranta si chiar amintiri. Dezamagit de oameni, locuri si evenimente tai cu repeziciune toate legaturile cu oricine si orice doar ca sa doara mai putin si sa se termine mai repede. Stiu ca oricum asta urmeaza sa se intample – am zeci de ani de confirmari. Si chiar daca nu sunt dezamagit incerc sa nu tin legatura cu alti oameni sau locuri. Nu am prieteni apropiati si nici nu vreau sa am. Nu am locuri preferate si nici nu vreau sa am. Nu mai visez la vacante in locuri exotice sau incitante. Si nu din lipsa de dorinta ci din lipsa de emotie. Sau mai bine spus instinct de supravietuire. Ma gasesc destul de rar cu oameni care sunt mai apropiati insa nu pot sa ii numesc prieteni – ar fi o conjunctie emotionala pe care nu mi-o permit. Mi-ar placea sa ma plimb cu barca pe canalele din Amsterdam sau sa simt sub talpi nisipul de pe plajele din Costa Blanca insa stiu ca nu as avea o satisfactie care sa merite efortul si renunt. Mi-ar placea sa ajung in America de Sud insa nu vreau sa am de a face cu mizeria de acolo si renunt. Singurul parcurs logic pare sa fie renuntarea. Totul se stinge. Uneori usor, alte ori cu repeziciune. Constat ca nici nu am timp sa ma plictisesc.

Asadar continui agale in parcursul numit viata intrebandu-ma ce se va intampla in curand? Va continua declinul? Cel mai probabil da. Voi gasi vreo umbra de entuziasm? Inca este in mine insa este reprimata considerabil de orice altceva care face parte din ceea ce difinim ca realitate. Timpul trece surprinzator de repede. Inainte trecea greu cand se intampla ceva mai putin placut. Acum trece repede indiferent de ce se intampla. Pana si anii au inceput sa nu mai aiba importanta ca si cum e un semn ca in viata mea mea nimic remarcabil nu se va mai intampla. Urasc mediocritatea desi ma afund in ea tot mai mult in fiecare zi. Ma simt incatusat de circumstante. Totul este lipsit de control. Dorintele mele si vointa mea au o contributie infim de mica la viata mea. Trenul vietii merge in ritmul lui, pe o cale a destinului mie necunoscuta iar eu zac intr-un salon de clasa inferioara lipsit de confort si de o companie placuta. E un vis urat care se cheama viata mea.

Ceea ce lipseste cel mai mult este dragostea. Nu in sensul romantic. Lumea este prea plina de astfel de aberatii. Dragostea in sensul in care tot sufletul se aprinde de o frumusete extraordinara pentru a trai o armonie divina. Cu orice, cu oricine si oriunde. Poate ca viata asta vine doar cu o singura lectie la pachet: pierderea graduala a dragostei cu toate implicatiile ce decurg din asta. Oamenii isi doresc mai mult decat orice bani uitand de dragoste astfel ajungand doar la o nefericire de o calitate mai buna – un comportament ce confirma mediocritatea lor. Am nevoie de dragoste. Mai mult decat orice. De profunzimea ei. De salvarea ei. De efectele ei. De tot ceea ce poate sa fie. Cea mai buna definire a implicatiilor este cea de la Epistola întâia către Corinteni a Sfântului Apostol Pavel:

1. De aş grăi în limbile oamenilor şi ale îngerilor, iar dragoste nu am, făcutu-m-am aramă sunătoare şi chimval răsunător.
2. Şi de aş avea darul proorociei şi tainele toate le-aş cunoaşte şi orice ştiinţă, şi de aş avea atâta credinţă încât să mut şi munţii, iar dragoste nu am, nimic nu sunt.
3. Şi de aş împărţi toată avuţia mea şi de aş da trupul meu ca să fie ars, iar dragoste nu am, nimic nu-mi foloseşte.
4. Dragostea îndelung rabdă; dragostea este binevoitoare, dragostea nu pizmuieşte, nu se laudă, nu se trufeşte.
5. Dragostea nu se poartă cu necuviinţă, nu caută ale sale, nu se aprinde de mânie, nu gândeşte răul.
6. Nu se bucură de nedreptate, ci se bucură de adevăr.
7. Toate le suferă, toate le crede, toate le nădăjduieşte, toate le rabdă.
8. Dragostea nu cade niciodată. Cât despre proorocii – se vor desfiinţa; darul limbilor va înceta; ştiinţa se va sfârşi;
9. Pentru că în parte cunoaştem şi în parte proorocim.
10. Dar când va veni ceea ce e desăvârşit, atunci ceea ce este în parte se va desfiinţa.
11. Când eram copil, vorbeam ca un copil, simţeam ca un copil; judecam ca un copil; dar când m-am făcut bărbat, am lepădat cele ale copilului.
12. Căci vedem acum ca prin oglindă, în ghicitură, iar atunci, faţă către faţă; acum cunosc în parte, dar atunci voi cunoaşte pe deplin, precum am fost cunoscut şi eu.
13. Şi acum rămân acestea trei: credinţa, nădejdea şi dragostea. Iar mai mare dintre acestea este dragostea.

 

Incomplete

Looking at the present moment and behind in the past I can see clearly there is a incompleteness when it comes to love. Any kind of experience left something to be more. It was merely a promise for something bigger and better. Even the most intense sensations were glimpses with no actual fulfillment. Even the most intense feeling of connection was a bridge between two mountains but not the earthquake that brings them together for eternity. There is always separateness and incompleteness. The estranged always creeps in to tell the truth.

All this brings to attention that not only things fade out and perish but the whole of human emotion, leaving the clue that humanity itself is down-trending since all of us are feeling most of the time powerless and always proved too fragile.

Still in me there always was a thirst for the absolute, for completeness, for eternity. This makes life hard to adapt to. This makes life and the whole world to be an undesirable event, a dis-gracious experience. What is there to do? It seems that I am playing destiny without my acceptance. Right now coming to “Losers Anonymous” chapter.

Having seen already what is on the other side I want a serious way out. I know, something as serious as a heart attack. Not as a suicidal desire but like a mercy granted by the destiny game owner.

Questions

They always seem to be around. Most of the time I am wondering something. There are no adequate answers. Perhaps this is proof that the world is not perfect and to describe it in a more practical manner I would venture to say that it is really not functional. Or perhaps this is just a justification that arises from my incapability to adapt to this world. Lately I keep discovering that everything turns to shit. The many things that I looked upon with wonder and found inspiring are now crooked limitations. I can hardly find someone or something to learn from. But it can be too much to ask for. Instead, I am now looking for some simple, unadulterated kindness. And this is still so hard to find. Is it me or the world that needs love? Need, a word with the strangest definition. Do I really need love or do I really need death? In the last couple of days it becomes more important than other aspects just because I don’t know which one brings more freedom from the less functional world.

Beyond substance

Dry lips

Wet lips

For kissing it is a world of difference.

The wetness is a substance. But what lies beyod it? Is is lust? love? excitement? fear? surrendering? getting lost? getting found? a travel perhaps? violence? life? urge? hypocrisy? melting? a lie? becoming one? a show?

Maybe. However the best answer is the one that is so intense it produces great difficulty in being expressed. It is the inexpressible source of experience. And it tends to be a very individual endeavour. It is a painting with a unique style – and if you look closely, it is the style that actually stands out. It tells a story you can never hear, it shows you something you can’t see. It is sentiment.

Kissing is a work of art in itself. In the art of reality. Not a copy of an idea; not an offspring of a prime. And it contains so many intricate details. It tells so many stories. It is creation in real time. It is a gourmet dish. My favorite ingredients are: innocence, beauty, intensity, heart, soul and copious amounts of saliva – all parts in equal quantities from two sources.

The tipping point

This is with me for two days. A feeling that I was forced into knowing intellectually from an early age but it has unfortunately blossomed into an emotional reality. I have reached the middle point, the tipping point of my life. It is a knowing that the struggles of going uphill are now gone. I’m at the tipping point. Not somewhere where in some sort of wishful linearity it will change the meaning, color or substance but in a way where it will be the same, it will have the same clarity and the same character. What changes is the rushing uphill into some unknown with hope or even optimistic perspective. There will be no more of that. It is all changed to a downhill movement. There is no anxiety for a bright future. There won’t be one. From now on all goes down the hill in a very predictive way. There will be worrying about the speed and its repercussions but other than that… it is quite simple; the time will pass faster. There is no need to fight anything or anyone, there is no rush, no greed, no glory. There is no need for games or hate. I never knew this is possible but when you emotionally see the end in sight all becomes different. The meaning of it changes. It is all the same but the perspective is different. All the small things that used to bother me now have no meaning. I feel more mature than ever. Probably this is the first step to being old. Or maybe this is actually being old. I felt old so many times, mostly in my childhood. But this is different. This is an slightly undesired maturity. Why undesired? Well, we all know what lies at the bottom of the hill and the fact that I sort of skipped the childhood does not help. Other than that, it has some very sweet sense of freedom. And part of me gets some relief from it. You feel how short the life really is and you know so deeply that love and kindness is all that matters. The rest is all madness.

Treading reality

Caught as a glimpse in the discontinuity of a dream, there it was: the full bright me. Hidden but nevertheless more true than the nasty illusions. Brighter than the midday sun, more glorious than the dawn of a summer day, infinitely more than anything ever known to a human heart. Despite the pain, the struggle, the drag of a limiting body, despite the smothering of a human society and its rules and hierarchies, there it is: the absolute freedom of being. Nothing compares to it. There is no poetry to barely hint its beauty. All of any human language can do to describe it is like having a bad and sketchy black and white representation of a breathtaking landscape. Nothing can encompass the glory, the generosity, the absolute, the unlimited, the floating immensity that it is.

Having known it, how can any human endeavour stop being a chore, a limitation and an intransigent relativity? How can you stop feeling trapped, imprisoned and tortured? When will another human being reciprocate the infinite love that you truly are? When will a small part be as full as the whole?

It is all tearing me apart but so far without releasing me.

Writing…

I am wondering: why do people need to write?

My take on it is that it is done for the same reasons people have sex. There are so many similarities. People do it because they have a romantic idea about it that was seeded by some wave of emotional questionable erudition. Some others because they are copying other people. Some to solve childhood problems. Some to fill a void regardless of the other people involved – sometimes the relationship with the public is totally neglected. Some to demonstrate skill or performance. Some because they find it so natural they just feel the need to do it, no explanations needed.

Watching closely, there are many explanations for a single word. Just one word. Like a single word creates a world of its own. Its own universe with self defined existence.

But as anyone who reads pieces of great literature, finds the words of the writer limited expressions of an inexpressible universe that reigns far superior to any language that can ever be created by the human race.

It is in this spaceless space and timeless moments that pure existence resides and it is so strong and powerful that there just isn’t a way to even marginally express it.

So, having known this, what is the point of books when pure existence overshadows them all? It looks like simple toys for psychiatric patients. Or maybe this is the human condition; struggling beings waiting for a droplet of divinity to ease the pain of getting stuck and exhausted in the mud of existence.