I feel like a tirelessly exhausted gambling addict.
Every time I lose, the stakes get raised and I always go all in. I don’t ease into it, I don’t wait or ponder whether I have the right cards. I don’t seem to worry about the outcome, I apparently have nothing to lose. Every time again, I believe this time my luck will have turned to face me in my favor. Every time I have my hopes set on the power of faith to work its magic for me just once more. Every time I get burned, broken and beat down. I cry, self destruct, mourn my failure, grief my own downfall. Then I gather my loose pieces and my losses together and reach deep into the infinite bottomless pocket of love cash that is my heart. Only to play again, only one more time. Always.
Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I know that the house always wins and we’re all being scammed for the mere disillusionment that we could have it all and gain even more if we just play it right, if we just get in touch with that one stroke of luck. Maybe one day I’ll learn to walk away as soon as my winning streak is over. But instead I still sit here, betting more of myself than I actually have to give, just riding along on the hope, the wish, the dream, the faith that soon my luck will return. Or love.
failure
Wild Flowers
Am I not to breathe your beauty ?
Blessed by the summer breeze
Your warm sigh whispers upon me
Is it sustenance or punishment ?
To baptize myself ignorant
In devotion dipped in patience
Like wild flowers bloom from freedom
The captivity that caught me on
Is undoing my becoming
I won’t falter but I will fall
Hurt, break & suffer
Most of all
I won’t recognize myself
Failure shames all that is left
As I lose what I thought to have
Infinity∞
I often wake up in a dream, wishing to be thunder, scary but never destructive.. or carelessly falling like rain, in solid free will..
there were no hearts found in any of my lives, any of all parallel universes, any of every alternate reality..
at least in one of them I am more, or happy, or evil, or useful, or reasonless..
who cares if you don’t have what you want here and now ? or then, there and never..
an infinity of worlds provides infinite possibilities, not each but every of your desires filled in one of them.. in total, this life doesn’t matter..
an infinity of lives is being lived by a countless amount of me…
but if infinity is infinite, there will also be infinite impossibilities, an infinity of disappointment and hurt.. dishonesty, treason and failure.. all stretched into the endlessness of time and space
..would anyone want to live through that ?
I’d rather just have this life.. I will always be everything and nothing in the greater scheme of it all ..this is just one frame .∞.
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.