Resurrected in a dream

Life comes uninvited, surpassing reason, binding the creation, revealing imprinted information in our core, without explanation.

Reality and imagination are not opposed,
we observe the wild self hoping to be acquainted,  as a response to a lack of choice.

Let my unseen stream take you there.
I have become nothing but air, truly heavenly air.
A new way has come to me, a language only the old tongues could speak.

Resurrected in a dream,

We die for real, to live our wild fantasies.

My ancestors talk about celestial dragons and snakes of fire, how they plunge from the skies into one's mind,
illuminating their bodies and souls, as a path to acquire knowledge directly from the source.

The truth is by nature ,pursued,
and once the dragon's been invoked it is impossible to tame it.
I rest my head  motionless after a long intense wave of scrutiny
Moments are registered in my mind as a process of validation for my internal terminology.
Fantasies became cheap thrills in a world of trickery, you call me friend by day and in the night the enemy.
A lie costs nothing for those involved in recognition,
conditioned to a game I no longer play. I expand, in my dream I am the dragon and the man.

Those who see the truth always crave its taste, I close my eyes and feel them melting down on my face, I sacrifice my sight and swallow it like two raw eggs.

From my window a falcon flies into my room and lands as a toad on my bed . It looks at me smiling as it discharges venom into my chest
There are many defense mechanisms at play and i don't require complex justification to claim a unified actuality even if it risks exposing our vulnerabilities

So I ask to hear the truth from the crowned ones in the sun, drunk with my interest they abide and whisper it.
Simultaneously with my awareness small serpent of energy appears and start mending my lips together , the secrets will be kept , doubt kills the truth and the world is just not there yet , to believe a blind man and a mute.

I once wrote to mystify a tale of lifetimes crafted in each night and day. So I pray every night as I live a near-death experience before I sleep, and I wonder is it me or my PTSD?

Souls are precious for the soul-less and mine will never be for sale.

There are a million worlds out there and they are all lived here.
Whatever might be the vows you've taken, by the morning they'll all lose their meaning because the night is harsh, and we suffer to sleep, and in our agony, the evil entities creep onto us with their mischievous deals.

There are a million worlds out there and they are all lived here.
My vision's been recalibrated to see every version of what is real, in threads of colors descending, intertwining with my stomach and neck, like a magical key to a world that emanates consciousness in orange and red.

From the brink of death to love and respect, it is all good when I remember, but what can I do when I forget?  

I sleep hoping that the morning will bring back my optimism


Words Of Harfouchism

I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline.

In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear.

This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments?
Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo .


Words Of Harfouchism

Back in my village, in the middle of a pine forest, I walk for hours radiating yellow and green until the earth swallows me and spits me out as a mystical bird-like being.

Like a peacock, I spread my shimmering, resonating feathers and bow to the giant raptor in the sky.
I can only be obedient to his emanations.
I fly back to my children, to my nest on a magnificent cedar tree. We entangle our necks and feathers in rapture knowing that soon, the earth shall reclaim my original nature.

By the sea I sit and patiently wait  to remember why I chose to forget.
The wind moves the waters, and the waves cast the sunlight onto my forehead. I feel the heat increasing as my structure dissolves. I gain back consciousness in an aquatic atmosphere taking a turtle-like form with a shell and humanoid hands. I swim down following a series of glares and vibrations until I reach what is seemingly an immense turtle temple. I feel a sudden danger and crawl back into shell. I open up my eyes and find myself sitting by the sea again.

Life is a journey of appreciation.
I can only surrender and be grateful.



Words Of Harfouchism

Life is all entertainment , just like a psychedelic theater, our thoughts and breath whisper reality into creation.
I roam in and out my worldless kingdom
Freedom's reserved for the wild and untamed.
For who cares to know, we could fly our way out as falcons , or swim our way in as whales. It will never really matter because it's all entertainment , while we patiently wait for the emanations.
Expectations emerge from preconceived notions and blocks the transmissions entitled to all sentient beings.
Like a collective prophet and a magnet , we learn to filter the commands to percieve the matrix. Finally to redefine and recreate a convenient  path that is real.
Our thoughts and breath whisper reality into creation, i chose my fun as transmutation, life is recreational.


Words Of Harfouchism

What happens in the unknown ?

Sages preach of "knowables" and "unfathomables",
but I perceive it to be a cognitive game since my attention is always fixated
on patternized characteristics and sceneries.

I've known and loved myself enough to  know not to invest my thoughts or actions in impulses
Yet from time to time, I tolerate myself.

Life might be identified as unknowable but we all live and die,
consumed by a spectrum of unnecessary emotions and intense analyses
to finally, ironically, conclude that death is punishment.
So, we befriend God like deceitful hypocrites, seeking immortality and monetary advantage.

Still, many believe in the procedure of acquirement through encounter.

Perhaps if you go further for once, you might find human alternatives locked in unusual dispositions,
veiled, yet waiting to be discovered.

Death only happens to those who have merit,
and what happens in the unknown is never open to analysis,
for what stops death
is awareness.



Words Of Harfouchsism