Instead of sleeping
I lie awake
Of better days
That I wish I was dreaming
Miles are just numbers
Numbers aren't that large
Don't believe me?
Just compare them to the stars
"Distance isn't real
Nomatter how far"
The stars and planets
Are free up in space
And here I am loathing
Aching to leave this place
I have no power
I have no say
I can't not just get up
And walk away
But I hope
You will find a reason to stay
Please dream well this night
for I want to take you to a magical place
this place is our secret garden
a place out of time and real space
To the pond I will take you whilst you sleep
where fleece is gold on every talking sheep
hear them talk with crimson lipstick on
all my friends come here, to sit by the pond
Sit with me and let your dreams escape
put your fears in my hands
for I will rid you of them friend
you here with me by the pond
See all the creatures that come here to rest
see them knowing each other in loving eyes
stay for a little while friend as my guest
make your kind heart revitalize and your soul rise
For you are by the pond
layered with dreams of hope
here I come when in despair
when I am weak and can not cope
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
To my dear —,
Loving you was living in excess
And once you've tasted excess,
Everything else tastes bland.
Yeah, I had everything to lose
But I still loved you as if I was about to die.
It's so hard trying to keep a straight face,
showing that I'm ok,
but I am so far from being ok.
I'm all alone with no one to talk to...
I think I miss that the most,
just having someone to talk to,
someone to share each day with.
I'm scared, I really am...
The thoughts of you not coming back
grow more real each day we're apart.
I don't know how to give you this space without you forgetting about me.
I wish each and every day you'd message me, someway,
just out of the blue and say
I'm coming back,
That you never left.
Most of all;
say the words
that would bring me right back,
that would bring us right back
"I" and "Love" and "You".
Nomads of the Galaxy
searching here and there and everywhere
being pulled in all directions
how do your prove you really care
where to place your lost affections
if you realize you have no more
and given all there is to give
do you release the latch upon the door
and let the body free to live
free to roam where gravity pulls so bad
a brand new journey a brand new place
for we are all just roaming nomads
searching to fill an empty space
Through the years of transparent existence, a void of illusion becomes apparent and slowly becomes nothing more than a side-show. The dribbling glimpses of truth fade like the bones of old. No man can create such an indentation in the mold of space and time that the observers at the end of eternity will render their imprint upon the infinite gaian consciousness and body of universal proportions of any significance. Even the earth laughs at such ridiculousness. The ego is a strong bind - it can create maya and attachment to such fantasies easier than a bear can find it's ideal location for a winter hibernation. It's a world of craziness, where nobody knows whats going on.
The man woke up from his deep slumber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Squinting, he looked around, studying his surroundings and taking mental notes. His thoughts are dirty scribblings on a subway wall. His heart is beating, searching for a band to play in rhythm with. His soul is aching from loneliness and desire. His feet lifelessly surrender their position up on the couch and find the floor, shrieking from the cold of the linoleum. His presence is that of a bird with a broken wing still attempting to fly. He stands up and stares at the ceiling.
The room is small. Four walls of white, one window and one door. The window looks out over the grey city. The door leads into another room - the room most would call a kitchen. In the small room before the kitchen, there is only a couch and a blanket. No lamp. No television. No electricity. No electricity in the entire apartment. The kitchen holds no refrigerator, no oven, no toaster, no pantry. It's called a kitchen because that's what it would be if somebody else was living in the apartment. There are two bananas on the floor along with a box of wheat flake cereal. No milk, no bowl, no spoon. The bananas are almost entirely rotten. The box of cereal is on its side, leaking bits of wheat flake, resembling a dying soldier on a battlefield who's losing all his blood through the wound on his neck rather than a box of the West's favorite morning go-to breakfast.
The man is observing the cracks on the ceiling, along with various stains with no known origin to him. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to another to another to another and back to the first. Spiderwebs. Dust. Decay. A perfect example of life's ability to take care of itself. Biodecomposition. When no one is around to look after a house, over time, Nature will take over it. Vines will grow and overcome the walls. Rain will fall and wear away the roof and general structure. Winds will blow, taking blindshots at the weakened building, eventually cause it to fall. Nothing lasts forever. Everything goes back to where it came from.
The man now steps into the "kitchen", where he begins to study the stains on the ceiling in this room as well. His mind is electric, with no thoughts in the usual sense, but rather just a vague presence of void to help the ceiling stains feel important. He is the space through which everything around him can exist to their fullest potential. After a measureless amount of time, the man walks over to the sad bits of food on the far side of the small room. He picks up one of he bananas and studies it. He feels where it came from. The tropical skies and smells and earth of Costa Rica. There's a little sticker on the banana that says so. Each bit of fruit in the markets nowadays are individually stickered...for prosperity, one can only assume. Though it's best to never assume anything, and instead be open to everything - afterall, anything is possible, at any time. Likelihood and probability are also important factors in the universal constitution of existence. What was the likelihood that this man, when he was a little child, figured he'd be holding a rotten banana from Costa Rica in his hand inside of a kitchenless kitchen? Who knows? The man wouldn't be able to recall his thoughts from early childhood - he barely remembers waking up and experiencing the chilling sensation of early morning linoleum. In any case, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, for it wouldn't be if it wasn't meant to be.
He slowly peels open the banana peel to reveal this brown, soft mush of tropical fruit. Just the way he likes it - soft enough to chew with his toothless mouth. He takes his time consuming the fruit, savoring every particle. After a good bit of time, the fruit is gone and all the man is left with is the peel. He takes another good look at the peel, once again imagining where this particular banana came from. Then, in two swift bites, he devours the entire peel - sticker included. He figures the sticker came from Costa Rica as well, and thus must carry that Costa Rican tropical vibe of health and longevity. His eyes then focus on the wheat flake cereal lying next to the other rotting banana. He bends down and picks up the box. The box is upside down when he picks it up and so the cereal spills out all over the area of the "kitchen" floor that seems to be dedicated to eating food. The remaining banana is now covered in wheat cereal.
The man drops the box back onto the floor and takes a seat alongside of it. His fingers hold his face from drooping onto his knees. His knees are keeping his torso from melting onto the floor. He screams with no sound. The pains of existence seep through his hollow eyes and into the receptors of his soul. He screams with no sound. He’s as empty as the American Dream.
The cobwebs are spreading from the corners of the room and are aimed for the human form sitting in the “kitchen” screaming silence with all his might. The cobwebs grow. The commuters of the city highway are commuting. A thousand birthday celebrations are being had. A thousand people sexually uninhibited, joyously seizing the moment in disgusting miraculous unity of mortal physical desire. Junkies are roaming the street for their morning fix. Teaching are teaching their students absolute lies. Governments are stealing the lives of billions and counting. And the cobwebs are growing, encompassing entire walls. The the ceiling. Then the floor. Then they crawl up the lifeless legs of the man who sits screaming in silence and the spiders overtake his body. They stitch his mouth shut and close his eyes with their spun proteinaceous spider silk. The man withers into the wind of time and vanishes from the world without a single soul taking notice. Leaving nothing behind except an empty apartment, overdue rent, and a number in the system of Western Society. His spirit cries sorrowfully as it flees the clutches of molecular existence into the realm of eternity and space. Heaven. He made it. He looks down at the people of the world he just left and sings a pitiful song for them. He’ll see them again. Afterall, they are Him. And He is Them. His Heart, the Sun, burns as the world he left turns. The lessons He left are slowly being learned. One by one. But still, there’s a space between the atoms, between the cells. And that space can never disappear. Without it, there would be no point to the story. All would be one, as it is, and there’s be nothing to overcome. No triumph. Just an endless loop of bizarre beautiful experience and pattern.
Sweet caress, Mexico calling Beauty
Heaven casting shadows on body
Melting into shore-sprayed ocean waves
Dribbling lifetimes through the galley
Space time warfare being shunned
Baja rising mojo rising
Knowledge knows nothing
Scanning celebrated islands
Off the coast, way off from town
In the depths of solitude
In the current of infinity
Where Riders Ride, and Angels fly
Where life has forgotten to die
Rivers, Waterfalls, Cliffs
Falling crest liquid chest
Milking the bosom of Nature's kindness
Seek salvation in the fish of water
With no sake or care, but just the season
Washing air over warm
Combing through atlas place
Gutter rhyme spilling into the conversation
And the mouths of fate choke
Leaving silence to beckon hope
And from the silence comes the now
And the now shall bring later and tomorrow
And life will roll on
With briskness of clouds and truth
Aching itself into the moment of face
Loving every minute of the hour
Forgiving hopelessness as bad company
And saddling the wandering again
'Cause even at the end of the road,
There's always the ocean still to go.
Well, I had to let it go - I just had to let it go.
I don’t know why I’m writing - I seriously don’t. You can believe, or not - it doesn’t matter in all honesty to me - but I do care. I actually always care. I care about the children and the sun and China and India and Africa and war and peace and food and water and highs and lows and the earth and the air and the grand color of life sewn into the fabric of experience through eyes and minds and legs and lives. How could I not care? To not care is borderline-blasphemy - it’s spitting in the face of God and defecating on the golden throne of responsibility. Having a life is a responsibility - one of massive cosmic proportions.
And so I wait for a call, from a friend, about business concerning sound and growth and direction and sharing - something along those lines...and I wait, and I wait - in the rain, on a cloud, in the street, alone, waiting. It’s okay - not quite as bad as it seems, but everything has a mask if you look at it in the right light (or shadow?). Perhaps, just perhaps...but here I am waiting for a call, and I’m thinking about a girl - about love - and I know that where I am is exactly where I’m supposed to be, but it’s sort of sad when you wish that somebody close to your heart is standing there with you, perhaps not even talking, but simply taking in the silence for what it truly is - beauty beyond life and death and dreams and the rest...beauty beyond idea and form...beauty beyond beauty - just love...love is all, and love is truth.
I wonder sometimes about my privilege in a “first-world world” and how I’m too lazy for my own good...sometimes I wonder what somebody else would do in my place if they were me and I were them...sometimes I wonder if I wonder too much...sometimes I wonder if anyone notices or even cares that I’m lost in the cosmic space of my own mind, swimming through endless wonderings about this and that and everything and nothing all together and between it all...sometimes I wonder what it’s like to stop wondering...
there is a space in your hand
where mine used to fit,
and a small space in your heart
where our love just didn't.
i know it doesn't mean much,
but i hated to see you cry.
and i know its much too late,
but you helped me touched the sky.
do you remember how i'd sing for you?
i learned all your favorite songs.
and now i can't forget them,
they meant too much for far too long.
if you find yourself forgetting,
please close your eyes and count to ten.
take a deep breath, smile,
and let the memories flood back again.
here's the thing about awkward silences:
they're only awkward if you aren't comfortable
with the receiver of the silence.
setting: 3 AM skype call
between: you and me
i think you fell asleep around 2:30.
logically, i should end the call and sleep too
but there's something about envisioning you on the other end
that makes me continue waiting.
this isn't awkward.
you exist and i exist and
between our existence is a
space of time filled with nothing
but thoughts and deep breaths
and soon i am whispering to you
in your sleep because the
silence does not know the difference
between late night confessions
that shouldn't be told and
deep breaths that match the
exhaustion on the other end.
no words at all versus every word on the mind
doesn't deviate if the other person isn't listening
but even if they're listening
and there are deep breaths through the mic,
it still can't penetrate the truthfulness
of the silence.
when you're comfortable with someone
there is no such thing as an "awkward" silence.
there are times when it's far too quiet
and maybe even times when it's almost nerve wracking
but you learn to treat the blankness as a gift rather than a moment.
instead of a time frame it is a snapshot,
a snapshot of life at that second
where you entrust each other with your most truthful thoughts
that are way too pure to escape from lips.
so when i think of you at 3 AM
passed out underneath layers of covers,
we are communicating
(but it is definitely not awkward).
Strange things happenin'
in space these days.
swirling emotions and
Who knows about
the sudden hook-ups &
disconnections just as fast,
It's on-again off-again,
of the internet,
a place where dreams
and without pheromones
to complicate matters.