Wednesday, 17 July 2013

Pulsating Storms

My heart only ever had one thought, one want. One need. Despite all, in spite of all...All my heart has ever wanted is you.Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.
In my dream I know I am falling. But there is no up or down, no walls or sides or ceilings, just the sensation of cold and darkness everywhere. I am so scared I could scream. But when I open my mouth, nothing happens. And I wonder if you fall forever and never touch down, is it really still falling? I think I will fall forever.Tatoo your name across my heart, so it will remain / not even death could make us part / what kind is it / It could be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare / either way I don't want to wake up from you.I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you. For me, imagination and desire are very close.I know in my mind.I would leave you now If I had the strength to I would leave you up To your own devices Will you not talk Can you take pity I don't ask much But won't you speak.Please.Initially, I feel expansive when I try something new, and then contract as soon as I encounter difficulty or the unknown. I am learning to experiment with my tolerance of difficulty and the not knowing, in order to go further with my creative dreams.
Whenever I experience contraction, I explore it by asking, "Where did I stop and why?"Building a creative dream life is not just about achieving, succeeding, or "meeting goals." It is also about floundering, stumbling, tripping and failing. ”
I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.All I wanted was a life where I could learn new things, where I could use and develop my talents. But most of all, I wanted a life that I could share with someone I could love beyond myself.
My soul gossip with my heart :- Don't open that door," she said. "The hallway is full of difficult dreams." And I asked her: "How do you know?" And she told me: "Because I was there a moment ago and I had to come back when I discovered I was sleeping on my heart.
I could never really manage to tell reality and my dream world apart, for the two of them co-existed together as they slid over top of each other.
I am just a dreamer, and you are my dream.

Woman's Cry

Crimson, blood-filled tears,
A gibbeted memory you left for me,
To keep with me for life.

Gibbeted while your hands moved ferociously-
Worked their way to your own profanes,
Regardless of my silenced, wrench-filled screamings-
Heedless of my days thereafter.

Your lips, that moved, where they desired-
Your tongue, smothering hot as fire,
Scars from burns received from your wretched wickedness-
Shall remain with me till my gibbeted end.

A gibbeted life I am determined to live,
Tears shall be salt water no more-
I shall pour blood in each drop that leaves my eye,
I shall muffle each sound that leaves my throat.

Gibbeted I shall remain, thereafter,
When I wake up from those day-time dreams.
Gibbeted I shall remain thereafter,
May peace be with you, for you need it more than me.

They say no hell’s fury is worse than a woman scorned-
I am however, silenced within.
Jolted, trembling in haste-filled retreat-
I escaped your claws, and now I sit here-Gibbeted now, gibbeted then.

Gibbeted voice and gibbeted strength-
Silenced now, silenced then-
Here with nothing but the butchered, murderous scream of silence.

Ears none but my own to be slaughtered,
By the gibbeted scream of silence.
Naked, stripped, violated and empty-
Voided, lewd and bare,
Here I lie, come and take some more from me-
Bathe in my crimson, blood-filled tears,
Come, gibbet me more…
Aegis me from this hateful scream of silence…
Come bare me more,
Come bare me more-
Kill me then,
Leave me not after,
Chew me away, take my soul-
Gibbet me now, gibbet me more.

Pablo Neruda



Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon,
thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light,
what obscure brilliance opens between your columns?
What ancient night does a man touch with his senses?

Loving is a journey with water and with stars,
with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour:
loving is a clash of lightning-bolts
and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.




something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and wrote the first faint line,
faint without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom,
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open.

Paradox



"" PARADOX ""
I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer -- and what trees and seasons smelled like -- how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.I have dozens of loyal fans! …they come in thirteens ;) ..

Well,It is difficult to write a paradiso when all the superficial indications are that you ought to write an apocalypse.Books can also provoke emotions. And emotions sometimes are even more troublesome than ideas. Emotions have led people to do all sorts of things they later regret-like, oh, throwing a book at someone else.I realized how truly hard it was, really, to see someone you love change right before your eyes. Not only is it scary, it throws your balance off as well. :) ok ok ..But it was a bad dream ,Loves n hugs to my dear ones .Truth is neither ojectivity nor the balanced view; truth is a selfless subjectivity.
We live and breathe words. .... It was books that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone. They could be honest with me, and I with them. Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its colors and textures and sounds, I felt--I felt the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. I felt I was dreaming and thinking and feeling with you. I dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted--and then I realized that truly I just wanted you ---- > My soul - My thoughts  :) The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents... some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new Dark Age.
There are winds of destiny that blow when we least expect them. Sometimes they gust with the fury of a hurricane, sometimes they barely fan one’s cheek. But the winds cannot be denied, bringing as they often do a future that is impossible to ignore.

My swthrt frds always told me :- Your soul knows the geography of your destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey..Guys 'no cmmts' love u all .

Alma Mater



I have had playmates, I have had companions; In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. My school days were the happiest days of my life; which should give you some indication of the misery I've endured over the past seventeen  years.Memories, even your most precious ones, fade surprisingly quickly. But I don’t go along with that. The memories I value most, I don’t ever see them fading.I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realize an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it's noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear.The worst memories stick with us, while the nice ones always seem to slip through our fingers.Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on.I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.When people talk about the good old days, I say to people, 'It's not the days that are old, it's you that's old.In every age "the good old days" were a myth. No one ever thought they were good at the time. For every age has consisted of crises that seemed intolerable to the people who lived through them.

#
The campus, an academy of trees,
under which some hand, the wind's I guess,
had scattered the pale light
of thousands of spring beauties,
petals stained with pink veins;
secret, blooming for themselves.
We sat among them.
Your long fingers, thin body,
and long bones of improbable genius;
some scattered gene as Kafka must have had.
Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.
That simple that was myself, half conscious,
as though each moment was a page
where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type
struck against the moving ribbon.
The light air, the restless leaves;
the ripple of time warped by our longing.
There, as if we were painted
by some unknown impressionist.An echo of the days of pleasure,
An echo of the days drew near me,
A little of the fire of the youth of both of us,
Again I took in my hands a letter,
And I read and reread till the light was gone.
#

Nostalgic memory is a sudden encounter with the thingness of the thing that has been forgotten, not the continuous desire for possessions, whether past, present, or future. You can drag my body to school but my spirit refuses to go,wants to hanged up with my friends outside classroom .

Almost Hosanna



"" ALMOST HOSANNA ""

I would like to depict a flow of thoughts , but dnt stigmatize that point of view .brotha . ;) There is truth, my boy. But the doctrine you desire, absolute, perfect dogma that alone provides wisdom, does not exist. Nor should you long for a perfect doctrine, my friend. Rather, you should long for the perfection of yourself. The deity is within you, not in ideas and books. Truth is lived, not taught.My life is music, and in some vague, mysterious and subconscious way, I have always been driven by a taut inner spring which has propelled me to almost compulsively reach for perfection in music, often - in fact, mostly - at the expense of everything else in my life.Geniuses don't become geniuses until they find the right moron to compare themselves to.This is for you , ' There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad in a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the moonlight.'
Tried be cheerful, tried be upbeat, tried not to let my feelings show, not to blame him, not to mind when day after day, week after week, that persons nonchalance eroded my heart. Sometimes, being an optimist was quite the fucking effort. Well ,lets drift the pace now , Friendship- my definition- is built on two things. Respect and trust. Both elements have to be there. And it has to be mutual. You can have respect for someone, but if you don't have trust, the friendship will crumble.I have met some highly intelligent believers, :P :P  but history has no record to say that [s]he knew or understood the mind of god. Yet this is precisely the qualification which the godly must claim—so modestly and so humbly to possess. It is time to withdraw our 'respect' from such fantastic claims, all of them aimed at the exertion of power over other humans in the real and material world.

Sometimes,the mind can calculate, but the spirit yearns, and the heart knows what the heart knows.--> Tujhe dekha to yeh jana sanam (Indian song line) . ;) ---> [ dreams ] --> All problems are illusions of the mind . Again,sometimes sorry many times ,my envision kiss the globe of my dreams , and innocently declared like this -- > Let the heart carry on singing, you are my destination,I hope the night does not pass, I hope the day does not pass.
In my experience, the most staunchly held views are based on ignorance or accepted dogma, not carefully considered accumulations of facts. The more you expose the intricacies and realtities of the situation, the less clear-cut things become.I wondered why the head could move so swiftly while the heart dragged its feet.This was the start of a period that blurs as I try to recall it. Incidents seem to cascade and merge. Events become feelings, fellings become events. Head and heart are contrary historians.
Remember onething ella -- > The shape of my life is, of course, determined by many things; my background and childhood, my mind and its education, my conscience and its pressures, my heart and its desires.

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again.You know ,yesterday evening i realized that thoughts are slippery fish in a cold shallow stream. If you are intent on capturing a worthwhile one, you need to stand very still, focus very hard on somewhere outside yourself, and then simply ignore it until it gets so close that it tickles your ankles.
 Yes,this is true.Very true.I choose to write because it's perfect for me. It's an escape, a place I can go to hide. It's a friend, when I feel out casted from everyone else. It's a journal, when the only story I can tell is my own. It's a book, when I need to be somewhere else. It's control, when I feel so out of control. It's healing, when everything seems pretty messed up. And it's fun, when life is just flat-out boring then, pounce.I don't impressed if you're a religious person. I just wanna know about soul behind that mask.
When someone tells me "no," it doesn't mean I can't do it, it simply means I can't do it with them.Well, I always know what I want. And when you know what you want--you go toward it. Sometimes you go very fast, and sometimes only an inch a year. Perhaps you feel happier when you go fast. I don't know. I've forgotten the difference long ago, because it really doesn't matter, so long as you move.The moon looked like melted mozzarella to my bleary and blurry vision. Was I tired, intoxicated, or in love? Or was I sober, asleep, and alone?,Maybe the truth is, there's a little bit of loser in all of us. Being happy isn't having everything in your life be perfect. Maybe it's about stringing together all the little things.Again,this is for you ,The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.Well,The only thing standing between you and your goal is the bullshit story you keep telling yourself as to why you can't achieve it. :P :P Bcoz A regime that wraps itself in the flag of truth fears truth most of all, for if its story is falsified to the slightest degree, its authority is gone.

My City Breaks



In Chloe, a great city, the people who move through the streets are all strangers. At each encounter, they imagine a thousand things about one another; meetings which could take place between them, conversations, surprises, caresses, bites. But no one greets anyone; eyes lock for a second, then dart away, seeking other eyes, never stopping.

A girl comes along, twirling a parasol on her shoulder, and twirling slightly also her rounded hips. A woman in black comes along, showing her full age, her eyes restless beneath her veil, her lips trembling. At tattooed giant comes along; a young man with white hair; a female dwarf; two girls, twins, dressed in coral. Something runs among them, an exchange of glances link lines that connect one figure with another and draws arrows, stars, triangles, until all combinations are used up in a moment, and other characters come on to the scene: a blind man, a courtesan with an ostrich-plume fan. And thus, when some people happen to find themselves together, taking shelter from the rain under an arcade, or crowding beneath an awning of the bazaar, or stopping to listen to the band in the square, meetings, seductions, copulations, orgies are consummated among them without a word exchanged, without a finger touching anything, almost without an eye raised.
Happiness doesn't lie in conspicuous consumption and the relentless amassing of useless crap. Happiness lies in the person sitting beside you and your ability to talk to them. Happiness is clear-headed human interaction and empathy. Happiness is home. And home is not a house-home is a mythological conceit. It is a state of mind. A place of communion and unconditional love. It is where, when you cross its threshold, you finally feel at peace.My home is my city.Full of joy,mystery ripples of thoughts,hurry,running .Fast-simple-classic.