Life is a set of feelings, matters we think we understand and concepts we enjoy believing. There, of course, is no definition. But a single line can be so very powerful at times. How we define freedom, for instance: Sometimes it results in hatred, anguish and eventually war. Other times in live, happiness and peace. Defined by humans; all is dangerous. No matter how simple an idea is presented to us in its natural entity, humanity can embrace it with the ingenuity resulting in a demonstration os perfection, or it could leave many with nothing but a desire to be marked as the deceased. Our capabilities far exceed our understandings. Even our understandings of human nature.
A lie could be of absolutely no significance. However, as an individual who proceeds to alter the truth for entertainment purposes, Lying in my belief is an act whereby you must not feel any sentiment, empathy nor guilt. It is necessary.
The skies are so very beautiful with the glancing stars bringing the sound of countenance into the heart of nature. The hour is 2127 and I feel as though the next 2400 will be remembered with great significance. The next 24 hours shall be lived to their core by all those who believe in they deserve to live. By all those caring for life as it wants to be. The next 24 hours, very much similar to the past 24 hours, shall be remembered. And after they have passed us by in means out of intellectual capacities but within the reach of our sentiments, we shall live the next 2400. And the next 2400. And then the next.
Freedom is rising in the morning, conscious of your command over the next 24 hours.
I Am The Wind. I Bring News The sun rises in the sky, the days lengthen, Energy stirs the world. I am born of heat and light and urgency. And once born, I move. I must move. I must. Always. My siblings and I, spawned from sun-boiled salty waters, stubbled fields and bare slopes, Sweep through budding branches, Laughing, […]
The chair is extremely comfortable. So much so, my hands desire not to write but rather stay in a motionless position, enjoying the floatation of blood through their veins. The desk is out of wood. When knocked upon, a very familiar sound fills the room. Outside are men digging deep into a ground they believe to be theirs. They are visible, but not by any means audible. This is for the better perhaps, as watching ignorance is one form of suffering; hearing it however, is much similar to suffocating. A Peugeot is parked right in front of a yard I call to be mine. Silver is her color. Ugly as always; it goes to show not all nations must focus their energy and time on all fields of the today industries. A tree is being cut nearly 10 meters from it. If the universe has any sense of humour, this is the time to embrace it.
All creatures and beings and habitants of our home are most beautiful when purely and completely nude. Imagine what would come to be if the sun would cover herself with a scarf!!! However, due to cold weather and religious beliefs; clothing is a sine qua non. A prerequisite to all of our daily deeds. Apart from sex and bathing, of course. Discussing why this is, is very much part of the “What’s wrong with the world?” argument. Not impossible but, a pure waste of time. The beauty of all which is in our immediate and has kept purely natural is entirely due to the fact they never occult. Beauty is when it is natural. Art is natural. The works of Monet, Da Vinci or Friedrich will always be admired by those who understand what it means to feel joy. Fashion, as Jean Cocteau put so elegantly, produces beautiful things which always become ugly with time. As there is no certainty in this world, I shall put my own humble wit of thoughts upon this idea (trying very hard to sound humorous, pretentious and demure simultaneously). The cause of this very hilarious result lies on the basis of staining all walls with not only the same colour, but the same brush as well. Just as the children of today glare with wonder at the manner Napoléon prepared for battle, the children of tomorrow will laugh at how we once prepared for a ball.
Be it male or female; the shape and design of the muscles and the limbs are the true stage of perfection. No painter, no sculptor and no designer can create anything as fine as our fatigue physique. I do wonder how far will we go to embrace it.
Thy soul holds still some innocence
Not drowned yet in thee filth
The trees are clarified
The fields have purified
Your love runs threw the streams
Filled with hope and deeds
You leave this place of sin and guilt
You forget the past and build a trace
Walking a path never experienced before
Living a life so very much reposed
Decisions are yours to be made
Regrets were mine to be held
Love became a game and sex meaningless
This act of power has become purposeless
You had faith no longer
You had trust no further
The game of chess is now your story
The queen you are without thy glory
You care not though, for your legacy
You lean back and forget thee privacy
Every moment lived, all sins forgot
All places seen, every man forgot
Risks you took, wars you won
Tricks you used, scars you’ve drawn
Thy blood never shed
Alike god, never fed
You’ve concurred this realm
Your legions were a sham
But to what avail, who knew
You’re left alone now, with your heritage threw
A quick note … I’ve been working for the past week or two on putting the final touches on a slim book of poetry. The first of what I expect will be 3-4.
This is the first poetry book, so it’s tedious. I only want to run away from home once in a while now.
But I’m almost there. Formatting and final edits this weekend, and I should be ready to do the final phases of ISBN purchasing, cover design and distribution and marketing setup next week.
The working title is “I Come From A Place of Fireflies,” and will be about 100 pages long. It will be offered via Amazon for a nominal fee.
Ernest Hemingway wrote in what then became the foreword of A Moveable Feast: “This book contains material from the remises of my memory and of my heart. Even if the one has been tampered with and the other does not exist.”
The sound of two women talking in the room beside mine has taken my concentration and tore it apart, leaving only the pieces with which I can remember what it was like, writing in solitude. Of course this is not to last and soon there will be space and time for my fingers to press keys with letters on them.
There is a bookstore in Amsterdam, on Spui. The first floor contains those of academic purposes. From economics to politics and architecture. The second floor is vaguely fiction and works of literature. When you go up the stares to the third floor, on your right the first name you see is Poe. Directly on the shelf behind him is Faulkner. In front of him are books for Dutch beginners. It does not make much sense, does it? When you add in the fact that there are computers on this floor for costumers, one wonders if there ever was any thinking behind the interior design and configuration of this place. The reality of it is, however, who cares? As long as the bookstore brings the books; I would have them if they were in the toilet.
236 words I have written, still no idea where this is going.
I wonder what be the outcome if these posts were to be shown as they are written. My handwriting would have been the one to avoid. I could even create a competition and give an award for who ever that can find “a” ! Then again, no one would know what the competition was about.