A day in my mind

The memories...
are rather heavy today.
It is simply one of those days.

I can still shield my eyes against the vivid sun; and the waves gently dance.
Hand in hand the memories run.
The laughter is there, yet drowned by the violins...
as we run.

I can still see your smiles. I can still feel the sun. I can still taste the ocean, and sand as we run.
Hand in hand the shore lay ahead, eternally spinning under our soles
I recall how the breeze would toss your hair,
how we'd stumble o'er the foam...

as we run.

It feels so long ago.
yet so heavily near

in this moment
that day,
...and nevermore.

Observation of the Day

Love sells.

...Just try not to end up broke, my friend.

The Affairs of Vicissitude

Fallen are the leaves of contemplation
as unstoppable as the sun.
The familiar tastes never leave,
ever lingering as wine.

Music soothes and completes
when there is no solace to be found
from ones' own

ceaseless

stream

of

consciousness.

Relentless is the knowledge
of things preferred forgotten

Yet once the tastes were known

I could not choose to be ignorant of it again.

This I know.
and this I will always know.

Thrums of the sound waves
expand across the page
ripples ever growing
until nothingness is gained.

and I laugh.
How familiar...
how very familiar.


Fallen are the leaves of contemplation.
I catch them in my fingertips,
and never let them go.
And the tastes of wine
still linger
despite a specter's dream.

Cogitation

"I have thought..."

Oh the things I have thought.



That is all I can muster up today...




That is all.

Metamorphosis

Ah, how the preludes come in waves, so ironically overlooked, yet more blatant than the very sun. Ever shifting is the land, moons of drought or prosperity, peace, and conflict. Even though surroundings are stripped away, and vulnerability stirs, I find comfort in these transitions- that roads are being traversed, progressions transpire, and destinations come ever closer. (If destination indeed exists in the journey of a life)

These occurances are not only happenings, but sparks, catalysts. No event is isolated from another; nothing happens without a reason, great or small. The otiose only lies in the beholding spirit that selects stagnance over embrace. I find excitement in the tumultuous, the uprooting of the status quo.

Because it just might mean metamorphosis for those who engage it.

Anamnesis Revived

Sometimes, when I look back, even to the not-so-distant past, I wince at the person(/people) I used to be. Don’t we all? I wonder if there is a valid excuse, though, to shun the parts in our lives that we are ashamed of. I mean, aren’t the contemptible moments we experienced still just as valuable as those in which we are proud of? Subjectively, probably not, but pertaining to the individual we each happen to be, as a whole, those segments still make up a part of us whether we like it or not.

Yes, we can come to terms with those phases, yes, we can find resolution. But the fact that we were such a person in that particular chapter of our lives cannot change, and therefore there is no excuse to turn one’s back upon certain fragments of the past that are in fact, precious treasures...that is, people.

I have realized this now, and even though the page has turned, many times in fact, I know that it would make me even more so regretful to forget the people I cared about, than it does to remember them.

The Fashion of Living

The atmosphere is changing, not unlike a human being..

These days of late seem to ease into a sigh; as if the summer is dying, gently fading, into a slumber never to be seen again. Autumn is waiting for its rebirth, and stirring subtly in its cool undertones in the heat of the sun.

Today I rise to another time-line, yet another frame of time struggling with my frame of mind that articulates antitheses to the rest of other things to concern itself with.

Words form upon the lips strange to myself, yet familiar, as living has turned into simply breathing for the moment; grasping upon truth as we all do, and like the rest of us, deceit as well...

The encompassing silence always lay intact, except at the thrums of a sonata… or when my own clumsiness should break it; when the record stops the shattered pieces waste no time reforming themselves into the immaculate void once again; Its sovereignty is maintained.

A glass of wine, the stillness resounds…the beautiful mysteries are never fathomed and therefore that is why they are beautiful. Awaking everyday to a grayness sparked by color on the canvas, the canvas that is life, we paint only what we want to see. And what the eyes color are indeed lovely to oneself and one alone, and no one else.

The scent of lavender and sage comes in waves, diving perception into the reflective pools of what I used to know. I don’t remember now, but the ripples bring remnants at times of those moments tasted: interrupting the present’s flow for a few seconds of brief interruption, brief darkness and brief sanctuary.

But sanctuary is relative; perhaps the paradise is simply feign?


It seems that these observations can only work themselves out in dreams, anymore.

And yet, I can’t help but wonder…

and glance o'er the things I've known all along.

Proximity

Latent are the stars in the blink of an eye- sleeping, ever sleeping, in a vessel of dust and dust alone as the world will only know. Ripples form into once and forever, silent remnants of the secrets of truth. The universe weeps for that which it shall never fathom, O weaver of the rain, yet worshiped for the calm... it is an enigma in itself and no man can stand up and fathom it, no matter how lofty his words or perceptive his mind, for in the end, he is only mere man and can only do what mere men do... and the universe is beyond all of them.

Dynasty of Vagabonds

Lightning is organic. Here the rolling ashen skies are vast, yet ephemeral, I know; fading into darker storms fringed on the horizon...always with the never-ceasing anticipation of dawn still lurking somewhere in the soul.

Tomorrow screams in mystery while restless yesterdays lie buried swiftly in the sand- the same soil in which the roots of antipathy are sown. I know no destination, only provocative sojourns- brief mainstays to witness the fleeting ballads of my brothers. I grasp upon their lifesongs as precious jewels in this faltering vessel, though mournfully inept.

Viatic thoughts rage, maraud, and devour. Merciless in nature... I find I can claim nothing of the world. [Yet thinking everything of it] Flocks of crows come to follow now and then at my back.

So many voices; Senses fade to the sounds of my less-inquired melodies. Are there no ears to hear them by? From my lips fall hymns to metamorphosis' pulse. Can I bear what has become? What once was? What will be? Can eluvium once buried come to surface once again?

...Remaining just a seed, deprivation in a nutshell, simply awaiting for that vital sign; Wondering if there is a space in the fabric of time with my dimensions to fit.

I'm unraveled in the rain because the sky so reflects my soul.

And in this cryptic forest, the raw shadows speak.

"Lo, the longings you run away from! I am the embodiment of your stigma; My lips detest the wretched unseeing. You seek and hide from futile promise, yet avert from human whim- the very whims that burn you."

From their dark existence- one can only notice- such blazing eyes, flickering.

"You are a ghost in a great sea, a sea composed of your profound deceit, a sea conjured from your very core: evanescent in nature. Your isolation alone is thy paradise and thy end."

Who says the night is baneful? because it is the time in which our facades are undone, letting our hearts beat in the open? Despite the shadows' dismal resonance, I find a smile in my persistent steps:

The road is an enigma...

...and it is mine.

Virtuality and the Dirge

I am rather torn today, in the overwhelming flood of the expressions to be transpired. It seems that writing doesn't come to me so easily anymore; at least in this point of time. And yet at another turn it matters nothing because of the reasons I write in the first place... they have been stripped away from me.

You see, when you percieve something to be real within your mind, is it not real indeed to you? However, if in actuality this 'perception' is infact false then sooner or later the effects of its falsitude will be made known. The very reasons for which I wrote were after all, illusions, reverie, dream. fantasy. This very work in progress is harrowingly empty. Vague and worthless. Haha, perhaps as all of them have been? Except this time I feel nothing, this is inept "thing" is only badgering at void.

The entire, never-ending stream of consciousness that envelopes my life today and yesterday, and even tomorrow if i be so bold to proclaim...reeks of irrelevance in written form, just as it does upon the tongue.

It seems that the tracks have ceased. And thus, I shall turn away, and perhaps find some other road that will take me to the same familiar place as I have always been, though haven't acknowleged up until now.

After all, destination is a state of mind.


Until Then.

Gestalt

So I'm here in my invioble, syllogistic realm, chewing over the hows and whys of daily eccentricity (and especially normality) that captures my mental attention. Instead of my typical confounding of the audience in a dazzling display of rhetoric, I suppose I will toe the line to near-comprehension of my meditations; For those that would concern themselves over it. (On that note, some responding speculation or feedback would be pleasant...)

Considering that life is much of an experiment, I've happened to notice that the "science" to which I hold myself throughout daily endeavors is very much more Aristotelian rather than Galilean. That is, I am much more of a describer and observer than an actual experimenter. Yes, I have conjured some subtle investigations out of amusement, but, for some reason I can't seem to recall, I really haven't put my speculation to action.

One proposal is to simply ask more questions, and be involved...perhaps no matter how invading. It's easy to take quite a liking to this, actually. When encountering moments of thoughtful silence with some, try asking what currently arrests their attention. I've taken a few off guard by it, at least the more profound types, and usually the result invokes a small bit of insight into his or her character...that is, if their answer is honest. I suppose asking about a person's innermost thougths would only appeal to those who are genuinely interested by this sort of thing though- People seeking to challenge paradigms, objectively learn and discover about ourselves...

I would like to bring up an annoyance of mine. Narrow-mindedness accompanied by the sheer apathy to discovery. Especially stereotypic claims and arrogance, of those who learn not on their own but simply digest what has been fed to them since birth, without the slightest consideration. This creates what we would call sheep. Ad hominem reigns their logical capacities, and ignorance is the maintanence man.

I most certainly do not claim infallibility (infact, most of the time I hope my speculations are wrong!) because being corrected means you have got one less viscinity of error of speculation to step within. (Not to mention that I tend to be a cynic, and a cynic being mistaken is a good thing! :D) Though, I will add, that the plains of contemplation certainly are vast and far wider than my perception.

So much so that it is easy to feel that one's mind is so often mired in fog.

Speaking of intellectual peripheries, Why are you reading this? I'm not seeking any sort of flattery; only curiosity permits me to inquire.

I would very much like to know deeply of the workings human mind, heart, soul, (and where God comes in) as well as the eyes: ah yes, perception. One thing that fascinates me exceedingly is circumstancial association. Take for example, an apple. When I say "apple," what do you envsion? Feel? What do you recall? The crisp taste? The vivid red? Delight, or perhaps a fond memory where it was involved? ...or maybe a subconscious aversion to its color? Yes, I am quite aware that many probably do not overthink or even speculate upon the concept and existance of an apple. But that is just it; various objects, colors, place, conditions etc. relatively mean something different to each of us, yet not everything means something at all, yet to some much of it does. Just one thing evokes all sorts of associations, of memory, of conditions. Its incredible, the potentials, the capacities, of the human persona.

I've come to suspect...could this conceptual association be the staple of poetry?

Even in art...especially in art, for me at least. Simply a swoosh of a line here or a particular color there; ah the capacity of design! Evoking withing us inspiration, emotion, a spark of meditation, perhaps. Likewise can be said about music, to be sure.

Lets discuss for a moment the anatomy and physiology of the motor/sensory systems in the human brain. When you decide to move, say, your foot, there is a particular chain of events leading to its movement that occurs in the frontal lobes of the brain.

As my favorite neurologist writes, "Experiments show that the primary motor cortex is concerned mainly with simple movements like wiggling your finger or smacking your lips. An area immediately in front of it, called the supplementary motor area, appears to be in charge of more complex skills such as waving good-bye and grabbing a banister. The supplementary motor acts like a master of ceremonies, passing specific instructions about the proper sequence of movements to the motor cortex. Nerve impulses that will then direct these movements travel from the motor cortex down the spinal cord to the muscles on the opposite side of the body, allowing you to wave good-bye or put on lipstick." Remember learning in grade school that the left side of brain handles the right side of the body and vice-versa?

Anyway, what I wish to know is where art is concerned. What is it that (or perhaps, "how does it?") translate our inspiration, emotion or whim into the action of expressing it upon say, a piece of paper with a paintbrush or the strings of a guitar? Where/How do my feelings come in behind that single stroke? That inclination to a line or shape? How does emotion translate into physical movement? I wonder if it can't be limited to just artistic endeavors either; perhaps a hug, a slap, a kiss. Though I can guess that such processes are probably more primitive; rooting from less complex emotions.

At any rate, I would like to finish off with a quote, and a question. Something in me yearns quietly everyday for some sort of sign of human enlightenment, though I've come to discover is found consistently on a personal basis upon scrutinization; essentially, what I mean to say is to give people a chance. Get to know them. Break paradigms. Yes, I've been dissappointed much- but the diamonds in the rough far, far outweigh the grime. The rough is simply vast terrain just waiting to be explored.

"The world shall perish not for lack of wonders, but for lack of wonder."

So I'd like to know; what's on your mind?

To Run, Walk, Dance, or Be Still

As I wander around in and throughout mindful tangents, I've come to establish that the very attitudes and protocols in which I carry myself aren't things I would push onto other people. For example, my ideas on love. Or my honor. Or the things I strive for and the way I choose to do so.

My existance manifests all that I am composed of; woven, of thought and experience and imagination and importantly, ideals that are meaningful to me soley because of one thing: I am me.

The way I savor life, the perspective in which I view it and others. I couldn't possibly claim that my ways are right and the only way to do things. Haha, no where near it actually. I am farfetched in certain things, but I like it. Things that might be overlooked or deemed trivial...tiny intimacies and intricasies about me that no one will ever know nor ever care to know. That is me. And I know there are other things I can hold no judgement upon because I haven't even tasted them, though I make the mistake of doing so regardless.

That is why I refrain.

I couldn't possibly push my paradigms upon others, because they are only the product of speculation and experience combined with the yearning for truth. We are all looking at the same thing from different views. It is still the same thing, only often our opinions and experiences get in the way of seeing things clearly. I say, if you are interested enough to hear my view points, then don't hesitate to ask. I welcome it. Then maybe we can put our views together and make sense of those somethings that elude our comprehension.

There is also a price in this. We risk being victims of other's speculation, as well as our own, and it is prevalent everyday as long as people prefer ignorance and deny objectivity. No, it is prevalent as long as we are human...which isn't a bad thing. I am totally imperfect and make mistakes with every breath. Another reason I know that mere "I" am no source for what is right.

People are always trying to 'correct' me with their viewpoints. Though, its not a form of correction at all but rather a form of stating the perspective-in-question differently. I know their own inhibitions get in the way of finding understanding just as my own do.

There is so much one can learn from the fewest of words, even the smallest of gestures. Language, no, living is laced with endless meanings...and subtleties. Sometimes I laugh and wonder how any of us understand each other at all. [Of course, it goes much deeper than that. Some of us prefer this- for endless reasons, to choose decepetion. And the human race makes it so very easy to decieve and be decieived. I won't hide the fact that I have taken advantage of it.] I think and observe superflously, because humans fascinate me. Often, when listening, I watch and consider not only meaning but feeling and the source from which it originates. I wish to retain and utilize awareness as best one can, one of many reasons being the desire to simply know.

To know. What a delight. To get a little further along these journeys to find the things we are meant to discover.

Yes, this is me. I don't want to tell people how to see things (that's impossible anyway. Oh the art of influence. The artisan is actually the artwork.) and I certainly am in no position to tell people how they should feel about things. That is a jouney in which we are all in progress, an individualized maturity yet to be attained.

I laugh.

After all, it is simply speculation. I dance in it.

And you are free to move however you wish, as long as you continue onward.

Who knows what contemplations there are to be made tomorrow. They vary from day to day so much that often I feel like a different person at the break of each dawn.

And sometimes, I wonder amusingly, how people really know each other at all... if our perspectives are so fickle. But that must be a good thing, I think. It is evidence of growth.

Until the next horizon, my friends.

UpRooted

I feel as though I have grown much, yet in an instant a child. There is this subtle awareness...an awareness I am afraid to face, about the way I feel towards certain things. Ha ha, that is almost unbearably generic. I suppose the point is that I'm recognizing how little integrity I have towards myself; a cheat to my own.

I am an artist. I cope with the destruction through creation. It feels there are entire worlds I have to speak, incredible emotions and thoughts to express... I'm living in this byzantine brain, in worlds of metaphors. Everything encountered everyday is a mental trigger. I can't seem to get this brain to shut up at night because its running at mach speed for the sake of interpretation. Oh if I could articulate these insane deviations...

At any rate, I suppose that humans seem to fascinate me more and more everyday. They really do. "Expression" itself certainly is something...I think I've alienated myself from it for the sake of observation. I can't tell you how many moments I would love to express the profound beauty I witness day to day- the majority of it being in people's souls- It is nearly devastating. Counterbalances are everywhere, I've come to learn.

The visions of our world are free to be shaped as we see fit. Interesting how perspective affects each of us, specifically pertaining to the flow of time. I can hold an eternity in a single moment, or I can simply have a moment.

Hmm. Truth. Or shall I say words? Now there is something. Our perspectives become our truths, and these "truths" are manipulated into words. It isn't necessarily "true" in the actual sense of the word, but oh how all our varying perceptions can see the same thing differently and state it so. This, my friends, is the very whim of my existance. I laugh at such when perhaps no laughter seems fit to be deserved. I manipulate this entire concept to advantage, as my mendacious side prefers. This involves clamping my ears to unsightly verdicts, denying my being in its entirety, fact. I recognize verdict. I simply overlook these diseases.

And in the long run, perhaps that is the most destructive. To overlook worldly sickness rather than seeking out a cure. Sounds humorously familiar. In the mean time I create, to ease these lies.

I know one thing, however, as I traverse these abstract sentiments. I am waiting for something; though it is difficult to render. I am waiting to be startled.

Wherever You Go...

The day floats by all the same... yet different too. I think nearly all my blogs have at least some undertones on the concepts of passivity and activity. I don’t want to be passive and yet I have no idea where to even begin. When I stand up to go, I halt in uncetainty and ignorance. And to compensate, I write. Because writing is a form of coping, a form of gaining control.

I am terrified of complacency. I am afraid to get a good paying job and nice apartment and settle down etc etc because Im afraid I’ll like it. The simple, self-serving lifestlye of supporting oneself and indulging as a consumer.Because then I won’t want to do anything else; I may lose sight of the things that are really important and are beyond just me...the things that affect us all. I am afraid I will get caught up in america...I am afraid of that kind of "happiness."

Yet in this place...are there no other alternatives?

The worst thing is, everytime I try to get answers, I just can’t have them. Like I have to cut down the invading greenery on my own. But life is about that, isn’t it...Its really not the next thing you can achieve, its the long journey ahead. I know I tend to treat it as both, heh.

I want to know what other people are living for, what they are trying to achieve as "destiny." What are you aiming for in your life? What do you live for?

Remember Me as a Time of Day

I think this is one thing that everyone can write about. It applies to all of us, and depending on who you are, it rules us too.

Time. How strange that in the same moment things can feel like they are comming down to the minute yet the hours dull and transcend, unfamiliar and intangeble...that it can be so far away.

And when those moments finally come they seem to come only when you're off guard...like, "So soon...?"

Moment. Did you know that its one of my favorite words? Moment. Its capacity alone can be so dramatic. So much can weigh upon it, yet it remains so often overlooked. I kind feel like a moment. It fits me perfectly, heh.

Remember as a Time of Day. Remember me a moment.

Hopefully not one of those moments you regret...

Anyway,One thing I mourn is the slaughter of time. So much of it dies meaninglessly, wasted, when it is now that needs to be considered. The earth pays the price for such. We all do. How can it be acceptable to live on like this?

The time to be seized is now. Nothing can wait; we are far too disconnected. Not a second of agony can allow to pass by unnoticed.

I have something deep in my heart I wish to write about; but that is an entirely different subject...and for an entirely different time. My selfishness intercedes; no matter how necessary these cries in the night must be heard, now, I cannot let my time-frame be seen, my limits revealed...because I am a fool.

My question is, would you wait? Or would you seize this stranger's words

right

now?

I close my eyes and clamp my ears to the verdict.

Bury The Sound

The earth reverberates. I stand soley in its lamentation, living, breathing in its suffering and affliction of detachment- your tears are my own, your blood is in my veins, and your sight is mine as well. Our ears are one. I shake my head and sigh at the one futility I cannot let go...

Ο πόνος μου είναι ορυχείο.

This one sigh is felt by the earth and the earth alone. No man can recognize this tangent in me, nor can he discern...

In this way, the earth and I are kin.

There are ghosts in this dimension that observe such whims...If only I could reach out to them. They are intangible.

I run from the noise, I bury its destruction.
Though the sounds they shun are the screams of agony...
I run from their gluttonous laughs- laughs that devour the very souls of the ashamed.
They dismiss the echoes of grief. Their ears prick at the accents of malice, for which they hunger to be entertained.

I run from the noise. I bury its destruction.

In me.

They relish in it. It is the lavish golden calf.
What comes in the silence of forsaken
a healing peace, the angels' passion
a strain of paradise.

Of which you refuse to know.

O latent earth, the blood poured out upon you is poison
like the words of the belligerant...
Shall you fade away in the deafening silence
before you were ever known?

Scraps

Rain
how it floods the soul
where profanities bubble up from deep cracks
of past and present
over the surface
yet letting something of a piercing grace
take its place.

Cheers
Here's to the outcasts and castaways
the derelicts and lepers
to the refugees and vagabonds
Cheers
Oh how you travel such roads of color
Will none comprehend?
You are a monument against arrogant eyes
standing for the core of humanity.
You are the light of the world.
Let us drink in better days.

Sojourns

As the present unfurls...I begin to realize just how crucial memories are to this being. Its an essential part of who this one is, influencing hopes and dreams for the future... at least they used to.

Now I suppose its just an apparition...The concept itself is quite interesting I suppose; some refuse to let the past affect them and I wonder if it does anyway. I shake away from what I desired for in the future because I couldn't have it in the past...
Do I really don't want it or is i something else?
I wonder how much this applies to others...memories, that is.

And yet it is said that if your heart is far too submerged in memory, you'll never be able to break the surface for your dreams. Makes sense..

Somehow, I no longer want to find the arrogance to make assumptions on the rest of humanity anymore. I just don't seem to have it in me I guess.

I keep looking for any trace of a path...everyone else seems to just follow one set before them... mine lies in something alien. This concept of destiny... scary...yet at the same time, romantically exhilarating. If I could just find it.

How fragmented and contradictory. Sigh.

In A Sort of Cruelty

Time is faceless in a sort of cruelty,
inhuman yet not to blame...
I laugh in futility at my own wanderings.
Such meaningless words behind
half-conjured attempts for meaning themselves

If only the world would breathe...

I wait in longing for thunder and earth to contend
once again,
though these lips have never tasted harmony...
there is a subtle rhythym that says one while living...shall not.
Explicit cries echo in the stubborn darkness......
that I myself wrought.

Heh,

Will I not wake up?

Wherever I go
There I am.