‘Everything you touch and grow and breathe allows you to create a new reality from your dreams’ – Truth Beyond Mystery
dreams
Pursuit
In the pursuit of my dreams and growth, all I remember hearing was how people were sad about where I’m going and will miss the way things were with me.
Not everyone is willing or able to join my journey. Nobody but me has to be.
Just don’t be surprised that I won’t feel sad for where I’m going, because it will bring me further and forward. Also, the way things are with me will never be the same.
I will always strive for better.
Hit & Run
You’re a hit and run
No mercy
No taking back
The bullet
That infested my heart
With your love
I have no choice but to follow
As you disappear at the horizon of my dreams
Stop looking.
He kept showing my only each and all of the reasons why I broke up with him in the first place. Every time we’d interact, he’d whip out another classic example of his asshole self, his selfish behaviors, his grave lack of responsibility, his inability to care, try, reflect or understand, his stubborn stuck up spoiled blown up ego and pride that he continued to hide behind.
So I had to stop looking. I had to look away and stop feeding the person that I hated he’d become with my attention and frustration. I realized only now that this person he was becoming, thrived on my anxiety and my attempts to bring out the best of him gave him fuel to desperately keep holding on control over himself.
My obsessiveness, I shall admit, must’ve enabled him to retreat from willingness to arrogance.
Yet he truly was convinced he was evolving as a person. But growth and evolution are a one way direction. You can’t grow into a littler man. He was becoming less of himself by trying to be free, while he already was.
Still, his life so his choice, his prerogative. But I wasn’t willing to stand idly by and let that happen to the man I love. I tried my everything to make him see and realize what he was doing and what he was letting happen, but there is only so much one person can do for another until it crosses outside of your jurisdiction. It wasn’t up to me.
So I’m not looking anymore. I’m walking away. My hands clean. My conscience clear. My heart emptied of dead weight. My soul cleansed from all the hurt and sorrow. No more of his drama in my tomorrow.
Although I might’ve been the cause and reason of all of this. I arrived in his life, shook it up and down, put pressure and pushed him, had extensive needs and expectations. It doesn’t matter to me anymore. Whether I did this, or he. I don’t want it anymore. It’s holding me back from being myself, from my own journey, my growth, my evolution, my becoming of my self.
I will have to learn to fabricate a future for myself that doesn’t include him. Give up all my plans and dreams. Start all over, again.
Point the direction of my hope on myself again. Put my thoughts and feelings on a path surrounding myself. Pray for my own happy ending. By myself. Alone, as I’ve always been. With whomever I was.
Rainbow Dreams
I lived within a dream
Many shadows had been cast on me
Some from eye lids falling shut
Some from clouds that fogged the sky
I woke up in the dust
A mist so unsettling I could not rest
Every where it bit my skin
Every time I let it become
Until the clock got turned around
Just in my mind I saw the thought
A vision came clear as lashes did fall
A stroke of air touched what was never to recall
I grabbed on hold and flew along
All the way to the morning sun
Over hills of ice and sighs
Condensation behind my eyes
I rested when the awaited return
Of saddened goodbyes was spoken and learned
The reason to swim within a rainbow
Remains in a multitude of uncoming tomorrows
.Butterfly Lullaby.
At night she takes flight
Across the skies so bright
Lit up by the moon’s shine
Neither yours, never mine
In silver air she flows
Along locked windows
Deep in the dark she goes
Unaware of her foes
She prays for the sun’s fire
But careful to not get killed
By her heart’s desire
That with disease is filled
And the dangers that lure
In this nocturnal weather
Her soft wings flap pure
They strike light like a feather
But strong like a chain
As long as she can remain
She will rise between the shadows
And sleep in innocent meadows
When the dew has dried
And the roosters have cried
She’s off to her daily sleep
Lost in dreams she wills to keep
The Second Heart
I want to write till dawn falls
Until I don’t remember anything
About now or ever or whatever that is to come
I know there are no memories available
Of a future that is mine to make
But the past that is mine to keep
Promises only worse to follow
I rather not know any thing no more
I rather not breathe another ounce of oxygen
I rather just sleep to never wake once more
I rather just die tonight cause living for tomorrow is a waste
Tomorrow won’t be any better than before
Like none of the tomorrows ever been
They’re always just the same
A little worse if I’m lucky
Maybe something awful to happen, if I try hard
Never better
Never brighte
People hope and believe and pray
For anything, for all that will never come
It’s all just such a waste of effort
Life is a waste of time
Not worth the time wasted though
In the end you die and be forgotten
Why start and make something of it to begin with
It all ends the same
Everything you try
Goes the same way eventually
Follows the same path
Maybe that is destiny
That things in YOUR life, always go the way YOUR life is supposed to go
Fucked up in my case
Still I stay this messed up believer
Believing in better things to come
Believing in hope to bring relief
Believing in love to ever ease my heart
…But the way this heart’s been broken
It’s impossible to heal…
No one should feel obliged to even try
Let’s just say you do feel that way
Let’s just consider a situation where someone comes along
That wants to make me happy and alive
Someone who is convinced he wants to love me and fill me with all the joy and love in the world
…He will find out soon enough
That it simply takes too much…
Too much time, too much effort, too much attention, too much understanding, too much care, too much commitment, too much endless interest, too much patience, too much love, too much light, too much happiness, too much of everything that has ever been considered to belong to the category of ‘good’
You see, I have this enormous black hole, in the place where average people carry their heart.
I know, the heart is nothing but a muscle, which grows more strong and fit, if you train it.
But we’re all human right ?
Human’s have everything in pairs:
Two eyes
Two nostrels
Two ears
Two lips
Two cheeks
Two hands
Two arms
Two lungs
Two legs
Two feet
Two nipples
Two buttcheeks
Two pieces of reproductions devices (men: testicles, women: overies)
Two brainhalfs
So how come we only have one (physical) heart ?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not getting all psych right now.. and I know that ‘matters of the heart’ ..it’s just a metaphore because emotion doesn’t actually occur in the heart. We may feel it in our thorax area, some only feel it in their abdomen. In reality it’s just electricity in the nerve system.
But we call it the heart, for some reason right ?
Let’s just pretend for a second, that we actually have two hearts…
One physical, pumping around our blood, supplying our body with what it needs to stay vital, keeping us alive.
And one heart, on a whole other level. Not mental or emotional even. I don’t even care to call it metafysical, because that has a philosopical nasty ring to it. No, I mean something waaay beyond that.
A second heart, I think we all have another heart, on a level of love. Love being then this universal source. A source, not just supernatural, but outernatural. Like a god almost. But nothing like a god at the same time. Because I’m not talking about a person or a creature or anything that has form or shape or extension. I’m talking about something way more elusive and lucid. Something way more abstract and intangible. Something not even divine or superb, but everything more than that. Something so unimaginable, yet so desirable. Something so exciting, yet so nerve rackingly calming. Something so fulfilling, you get confused because as a human being you just don’t understand why you’re not seeking for fulfilment anylonger. Something so overwhelming, it covers and controls every governing system you ever had or created in order to keep yourself together. Yet it has you falling apart. Because as a human being, you’re not built to handle this.
Self-sabotage, self-inflicted injury, self-mutilation even.
At least, that is the typical way of dealing with these things or situations, for me. Would’nt know how to any other way. Maybe that’s my ultimale goal, maybe I have a goal in life after all.
Learning, or teaching myself.. to deal, cope or handle with.. life (?) and all that comes with it? Which should be nothing but love. But who wants to live in Utopia?
What’s the good worth, without the bad ?
Could we distinguish the colors of light if there was no darkness for it to step out off ?
Could we recognise sound if there was never silence ?
I think we would though. I think every living person has a certain sense of what’s good and great and perfect and beautiful and precious and lovely even if we’ve never had any sensory experience of it, as a sort of ‘a priori’ invested knowledge implanted in our souls to begin our lifes with.
Why do I think that? What has me so convinced?
How come we know the concept of ‘peace’ while the world is in war every day ever since human race can begin to remember it’s own name ?
How come even the most morbid souls know at least some clinical description of the meaning of love ?
How come we manage to conceptualize the meaning of an ‘utopia’ when there is no perfection ever realized in this world ?
How could there every exist such knowledge (or ‘faith’, for the pessimists and sceptists among us) if there wasn’t just the slightest fraction of useful information to support any of such conceptual ideas..?
Even the most extravagant, extraordinary, extreme and irrealistic fantasy or dream, is only constructed with the tools of our sensory perception. If we dream, we dream in shapes and colors, which we know… from within, from before.
We dream about what we know, they say. A random cocktail of deep hidden beliefs and fears and hopes or desires even, mixed together into a story, or even just a documentary of flashing images that make no sense but agressively pound their footsteps in our mental image anyhow.
But I bet baby’s dream too.. Maybe they don’t remember their dreams, they’re probably not fit to reproduce a sensible story out of them afterwards at any time of their lifes…
But I’m sure baby’s dream. And I don’t just refer to baby’s, at this point. I’m actually talking about fetuses. Baby’s that still live in the womb of an pregnant woman, full of big expectations, so to speak. I don’t really know if there has been any research regarding this specific question (and if not, I really think there should be, by now), but I think that any human being, when developed a full use of the brain capacity, it would be able to dream, right?
I mean, an unborn baby can hear it’s surroundings. The impressions it gains while being breed, are supposed to be carried along with the child among its life. So I bet there is a mental space, in that tiny brain, that has already (or at least practices perhaps) some premature mental equivalent of processing those (probably mostly auditive) impressions, into dreams..
So let’s just assume that is true. Unborn infants experience dreams too.. Then what do they really dream about? Their eyes are still closed, they don’t have any visuals. They just have sounds. Some basic emotions maybe? It’s true that dreams don’t always occur in a visual content. Sometimes we just dream a feeling, a sensation. If they are ugly and fearful, we call them night terrors. (not nightmares.. nightmares are just bad dreams). Night terrors.. we all have them, you dream something so awful, you won’t even know how to remember what it looked like. Like post-traumatic stress syndrome after a traumatic event. You know it happened, you know EVERY detail about it!! …only not in words, or images, even the most creative examples or most vivid metaphors don’t begin to allow to explain exactly HOW it felt or WHAT it was like.
But those can only exist if a person has at least the slightest amount of misery in experience available. Presuming an unborn baby has no such thing, I allow myself to assume that unborn baby’s have dreams, not night terrors.
Coming back to where I started with, how is it that we know about things that not really exist? Such as peace and perfection. And what do unborn baby’s dream about, if they have no visual content whatsoever to construct a dream in display?
There must be, in my imagination at least, a place where these things develop and occur. A place beyond physicalities, broken free of scientific borders. I believe it is the second heart.
A nature of every human, that resides among them, further and deeper than the senses could ever explain. A second heart, where love lives and rules and flows freely, and willingly. Yet trapped like a secret potion in a vessel. The vessel of eternal youth, perhaps…
No Name
All I hear are my own footsteps, as I’m walking alone, thinking to find him in these empty streets. He doesn’t have a name, he doesn’t need one. Any name would only compromise his clarity, undo his figure.
I’ve only seen him a few times now. First I thought he was just a figment of my imaginative dreams. I found out he was real, when I saw him doing something which dreams are unable to do: appearing in my wake reality.
From then on I was amazed by this appearance, knowing it to feed my desire to connect with him on some level of resemblance. I used to watch him from a far, and cling to those brief moments, to then later on imagine what kind of person he could be, what kind of thoughts we might share, what kind of things he does in life, what kind of purpose he has been chasing.
One day I saw him in those empty streets, and for a short single second, I could swear, he glanced back at me ..for a moment.
For an instant we locked and connected and a rush of crushing waves flew through my body. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.
Locked away in a prison of my own makings, bars built of cognition, walls of emotional intellect. That is how I remain after I’ve been with or around him. It feels as though he tries to reach out to me, in attempt to gain access, seeking my response. Whenever he moves, it seems towards me. Whenever he speaks, it might be for my ears to hear. His eyes made to register my presence, every movement, any visible appearance. His hands designed to hold me in an embrace of sustaining grace.
Knowing whether it should be like that, I never will.
But faith does certain things to people. Faith which descended from my observation, the plausible interaction, our relation. Though not to be mistaken with ‘relationship’. Any bound or connection, even that which exist only from frequency or contiguity, can be called or referred to as a relation. Only thing necessary to construct a relation is at least one common factor, one feature that is alike.
As cause and consequence follow each other up like shackles of the same chain, so do we repeatedly approximate one another by time or distance. Like leafs in a twirl of spinning wind, we keep each other in eternal rotation. An endless game to play.
The ability to write…
Periods of time gone by, I only find myself now in the right place and time and most importantly in the position of ability to …write.
It’s hard to specify what makes it possible for me to write. What are the necessary factors that play a part in the proces of writing.
First of all, a certain sense of peace and rest, calmth and emptiness. Creativity and inspiration get killed by an overflow of information. Both visual as auditive noise can murder the flow of a thinker, a writer. Anything breaking the chain of concentration has to be diminished and eliminated in order to keep steady a stable progress.
It often occurs that one finds him- or herself in the right place and time and even ability to write a piece. The concentration flow has been sacredly kept save and isolated from any interference or ‘contra flow’. The creativity and inspiration seem close at hand, but somehow remain unreachable. Writers call it ‘writersblock’, although this term can also refer to not having any creativity or inspiration or whatsoever at all. I call this ‘flow lock’. All the right features are in place, the mental space filled with nothing but emptiness, calmth covers the senses. A river of creative cognition and intellectual inspiration is running through the mind rapidly. Until it hits a barrier, a large iron watergate. You can feel the creativity and inspiration bubble up and burst into the gate. But there seems no way to let it loose. Like a mime player, in an imaginary box. An enraged lion in a golden cage. A dancer whose legs got amputated. It feels like a handicap, a disability. Failure.
Failure means, making an attempt that turns out to be or become unsuccesful. Failure does not have to be taken negatively. Failure can be seen as the road to success: after falling off your bike a hundred times, the hundred-and-first time you manage to stay on it! Failure can also be seen as a process of learning: the experience you gain through the many failures you make, can be or become useful for other purposes. Generally, people link failure to a feeling of guilt. They somehow feel bad because they weren’t succesful. They thought they should or could have done better.
I think this sad ‘shoulda coulda woulda’ story is nothing but an excuse to the easy way out. Failure is the first step towards success. Without failure, success would not exist as it would not be distinguised as such. Without failure, every attempt, every action, every plan would be a success, because failure would simply not exist. And to be honest, not every attempt, action and plan is worth a success. Failure is necessary to learn, to grow, to be humble and greatful, to stay grounded and keep relativating. Seeing things in the right order and perspective clears the road to success. Practising and improving yourself continuously is the one purpose of failure.
Not being able to write, makes me able to write. The imaginary box, the golden cage, the iron gates and the amputated legs make me search myself thouroughly. It makes me investigate my mental skills, put them to the test and stretch their limits. The disability makes me ambitious. Ambitious to be able, be stable, be capable of doing what I want. Putting my creativity to product, injecting my inspiration into a project. Making dreams come to life, by keeping dreams alive inside. Reality begins and ends in the mind.
One can mentally kill or give birth to, neglect or nurse, destroy and destruct or enjoy and conduct any thing. And any thing mentally can be put to reality, through writing alone. Writing makes any idea, any concept, any lingering figment or thought a concrete thing. To read or learn, wonder about or teach. Language by itself, is the key to reality. And the writer…
The writer is the goldsmith that forged the key.
Today was a good day.
The odds were off, everything was working against what we know best. Every fear was found unfounded, the air was filled with the most precious unpredictability.
I saw somebody walking on the street, with the exact same t-shirt, as the one you used to wear, and was my favorite.
I spend all day with a gorgeous sweet guy, who wore the exact same shoes you bought as a gift for your own birthday last month.
Seemingly irrelevant notions, but to me it raised caution..
What do these signs tell me ?
This I know..
That I can safely let you go
That it’s okay for me to move on
That my dreams are now in reach
That I only have to get up and grab them
With both hands
Pull myself up
With all my strength
Cut off the dead weight
Of your corpse drowning in my memories
My thought of the day:
Don’t try to erase your past.
Instead replace it with your future.
Truth Beyond Mystery 