Listening to feigned sounds from tainted mouths with clogged ears in a sea of impossibility.
Through the happening of the happenings life throws some hard balls that make you drop defenceless to your knees. Then you feel the pain. And since you decide this is no fun you engage in forgetting. Forgetting all that is causing the pain to flourish. Getting over with everything that hurts.
No sooner than later you discover it works. Gradually the pain goes. Although at the beginning it was seemingly unbearable it is no longer what it used to be. Precariously fading we are tired of it and seek the comfort of a safe numbness.
In this numbness we also fade. As all of who we are. We might call it getting old. This is where you realize that you not only forgot the pain or part of it but you forgot many other things. Some excitement, some nice quotes from a book or a movie that at other times you found particularly appropriate to the intense discussion you had with friends on a Friday evening, some memories you were always found of and that you used to always go to for no apparent reason, some feelings for the intense green of a mountain forest, some of the taste of your favorite foods.
All of life slowly fades away when you forget. And along with it, if not actually starting with it, there fades your mind. Given the state of it it is useless to start to learn something new. With forgetting you also lose a part of your mind that becomes crippled. Like a broken bone that although healed still hurts and decrees no effort on behalf of it. Another reminder that we are not getting any younger. Probably my urge to get a motorcycle will soon fade as well; or become a desperate clinging instead the excitement that it is.
Somewhere between highs and lows in love, scarced by unitary bursts on highly inflammable gulps of excitements lies the plateau of detached observance. A place of cold questionings. Not cold as in desperately depressed or highly unattached emotionally but in cold as in listening to a song at 4 AM to fully consider its beauty while the world is asleep. An objective absolution of a moment called present and of a silence similar to a isolation of the facing experience. In this place the question arise: is there absolute love?
The highest high in love entices a further developement. It has in its core an incompleteness. It begs you to go for more. But does it reach an absolute? Is there such thing as a complete moment of absolute love that reaches the end of the Universe to freeze time and space in perfection? Is there a key to an eternity of absolute love?
The experience does not show it. Perhaps it is necessary to go outside empirical, in a philosophical time congruence of apriori and aposteriori. Still such procedure will prove nuisance.
All I know is I would call such place home. And for the first time I will feel I belong to something or someplace.
Beauty has its glorious moments that have a strage pull to unbecoming. You are no longer the same. You are a shifter of the darkness’s penitence. Encumbered by magnificence you rise above the valleys of rock bottoms. The sandbags of human experience drop into nonexistance leaving shoulders free and light. As light as the lifting into layers of magic and wonder. You are no longer what you were: a wedge in an enviroment cage. The roots have been replaced by creative freedom. You are what you root your mind into. And the world? Is just a breeze gently grazing your leaves, embracing your branches in the chosen climate.
The clocks stricke even on the convolution. They match the instant of the present’s currency.
It’a bad market for emotions. From a slight and unsatisfactory up here we are in the depths. Caged by lies, treason, shallow and cold. My heart is hurting from lack of freedom. It’s grey. The gloomy filters have been coerced on the camera.
Where is my primitive inocence? I’m regretting the unadulterated unwordly state of being a chump. Completely oblivious of the glamour of being electronically liked. Who the fuck is social? What are the intentions? The main purpose and modus operandi.
My being is raging like a race engine with the throttle wide open. Scared, not driven. On a road that doesn’t even remotely resemble success or happiness.
Where the fuck am I? In a land I made no plans to visit. Didn’t even knew existed. All bleak and with the skies always grey. I’m thinking of dying: not sure if from the its darkness or from the past.
The angels are whispering: Patience! Do not force things!
What am I to do? Find some meaning in patiently fading out or just fade out patiently? The moment begs for drastic miracles.
What is the purpose? Is there one? Does the purpose have a higher meaning or is it just as the terrible stuckness?
Engulfed by strange sensations like the sum total of the myriad obsessions that spring into life at the lightest feat of paradise I find myself wrongly situated in time and space.
The stuckness is not in the situation but in the place welded by the mystery of two ephemeral seconds. The lock-out is nothing but the unknown of two moments apparently succeeding held together by the sensation of space – the scene of the drama of creation.
But lightheartedly we question the setting. That of time and space. Is there any other opportunity to experience? To sort of live the life as this thing called physical?
So between the desire and expression something went wrong. The pain and suffering got in the way and became the way. Weirdly enough the unintended side effect became the main issue. the center of live and the focal point of living.
So are we to arise or are we to keep the pain alive? The scene is infected with the acts of perpetual sufferings and the only true witness is us. The singular us. The only people able to feel what we feel is us. The singular us. All the actors play the scene but only each of them lives the truth of their own suffering. And each is the cause of the other’s suffering. Blindly done. So, yes, we keep on living the pain while wishing we won’t. We embrace and dance with the dark while we wait for the heavenly light. We know that it is there. Still hidden behind time and space. But we only get glimpses of it and that makes us addicts for life. And there is your meaning. We live life because we are addicted to it. Not like the perpetual heroic act that we would still suppose it is but like the needy undeveloped children that we are.
Mor incet in fiecare zi
Cu fiecare zi in care viata se scurge
Cu fiecare pas facut spre serviciu
Cu fiecare zambet zdrobit de priviri rautacioase
Cu fiecare clipa in care sunt oprit din a admira cerul
Cu fiecare limitare aruncata asupra-mi
Cu fiecare coincidenta neprielnica
Cu fiecare cantec in care se spulbera frumusetea
Cu fiecare descoperire a falsitatii
Cu fiecare descoperire a rautatii de necrezut
Cu fiecare zbarcire a intentiei divine
Si ma intreb
Unde e visul?
Unde e minunea?
Unde e promisiunea unei vieti?
Unde e purtarea in uitarea legaturilor cu limita?
Unde e poezia? Si glasul? Si cantecul?
Unde e dulceata de a simti?
Unde sunt emotia de toamna, anticiparea zapezii, mirosul florilor de copac, mireasma unei dimineti de vara?
Unde e misterul noptii pline de promisiuni?
Unde sunt promisiunile de nemurire?
Unde este aventura?
Unde e eternitatea?
Unde e clipa sfanta?
Unde e puritatea cu gust de vesnicie?
Unde este trasarirea clipei incitante?
Unde sunt eu? Unde mi-e destinul?
Sa se sfinteasca clipa
Din adancuri de clipe efemere
Speriate si unite de schimbari
Din conuri de constiite supreme
Din leacuri pure pentru cadre bolnave
De mizere absorbita de o inalta puritate
In enormitatea timpului chinuitor
A sperieturii multimii divizate
De picaturi de prezenta firave
Care se sting una pe alta
Fara scop dar poate cu inteles
Zboara tot. Mai putin durerea
Ce firav se simte in intunericuri stinse incet
Pe unde e lumina?
Prin zari? Prin departari?
Ce-s toate interne?
Si sursa si antonim traind
in acelasi loc mangaind prezentul
E stins maretul, e stinsa micimea
Ramane doar o umbra de inefabil
sortit unei plutiri inadecvate
Si ce-i acest prezent?
Si ce-i acest loc?
Si ce ar fi mai altele?
Stropi si alti stropi din eterna fantana a iluziei?
Intotdeauna altfel dar cu acelasi miez
Unirea lor e toata un miez desi pe veci straine.
Umbre ce nu s-au atins niciodata.
Franturi efemere ale unui joc fara inceput, fara sfarsit
dar mai ales fara jucator.
Cu ce folos franturile?
Doar firmituri straine?
Au fost vreodata intreg?
Cine sa le stie? Cine sa le vada?
Franturi sau un intreg.
E doar o alta soarta?
Rupta in bucati care nu se cunosc si care nu se intreg.
Unde e trezirea?
Acesta e un somn.
Si somnambuli noi suntem cu glasuri si cu voci.
Dar daca asta-i sensul
Eu vreau acum trezire.
In locuri si in timpuri nestiute sau poate ne-create.
Dar insasi existenta sa poata sa le aibe.
Sa ne trezim, zic, din toata aceasta cale.
Brusc si fara veste sa ne transformam in alta noua esenta, mai pura si mai treaza.
Si mai plina de sens si de iubire, de lumina si de totul.
O dulce transcendenta catre o Mare Trezire.
O Mare Trezire.
Ce da si sens si viata peste Marea Iluzie.
Visez acum, cum am visat mereu
Ca marea mea Trezire ma va aduce unde stiu ca am fost mereu.
Ciudat mai este somnul.
Ciudata este clipa. De cautari surpata, asa.
Acasa este locul ce il port in mine.
A fost mereu acolo, asteptand Marea Trezire.
Ce viata iluzorie pe un taram atipic.
Nu simt nici locul si nici timpul.
E totul o iluzie.
Un loc strain mie.
Stiu ca apartin acasa.
Acolo unde e doar iubire si lumina si bunatate si bucurie.
Asa sunt eu.
Acesta sunt eu iar totul aici este strain si nu imi apartine.
Ce zace in mine puternic e peste tot si toate.
Satul sunt de iluzie asa cum am fost mereu.
E doar un joc perfid.
Nu mai vreau in el.
Acasa este dulce.
Si bine, si cald si iubire.
Si etern si minunat si magic.
O, da! Magic! atat de magic!
Sa iasa la lumina! Sa vina peste mine, adevarata mea casa.
Tot ce simt si am simtit ca sunt.
O mare desfatare blanda, scaldata in iubire si lumina.
Mereu treaza, mereu plina.