She [Bee] said to me:
but i want to know more...you lift my madness, to a completely different level.
you're the turn... THE turn, of a double ended sword!
you dont make sense, and i lose sense!
if you cease to be clear, you're taking words away from me...
you unrest me...

I [A.r.]replied:
But I am the curb, where the world pauses for safe passage... And it passes. That is all I am as all I know regresses, and I make sense still.
To the world, and myself, I made sense, still, and motionless, while the universe twirls around me for-to this whirlpool-like endlessness in where I am. And the world passes.
Death lingers, the memories too -perhaps... and the sense of necessity which compells that I remain in this unfamiliarity, where I stand -still, midst the passions and dispassions of our kind all the same, more or less confined in our daily desperation.
And we would remain. It is this sense of overlapse that by the end of the day, I find that the world is cruel, and that in truth I want no part in it. And I do what I did in school -for some time, compelled: I learn, cope, and burn to the ashes out of which I'd wake to the visiting beams of distanced hope... Hope that I and my fellow friend should come forth free! Only realise that I have yet another day to survive.
So passing the bend I'd glimpse at my aging on the turn of the sword you speak of, and I know nothing about or of myself this day. Nor of this beauty that pauses next to our safe crossing, or of the young dreamer whose vision -like mine, is reformed one day by the other.
And I insist to keep this distance, knowing that once these necessities for modern day survival become one's priorities, they consume you, and assume you. So I watch over myself become this silent street pole to resume my "functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me".
And I know the truth behind the tragedy... my pole-ness I'm struck put for the safeguard of my passions that I accumulate and savour for my implosion. And they pass, like everything else, but we remain where we are -assuming there is someone pole-still too along the sword-line, or perhaps tipping it, with the same still fury that is fixated for this great urban vertigo.
And we'd pace, and pace, and keep still to make sure we'd find ourselves on the round, to remind ourselves of our withering dreams, and our collective sense of existence as human which is promised to ultimately expand unto the oneness of our ever varying uniqueness. Not as visitors, not as observers, but as citizens -women and men, of this lasting defloration of our simulated existence; the world. Free.
Death is -and in order too, an elaboration unto the unknown; and while we remain, decaying and rusting inside out, we ind ourselves neither dead nor free. I feel and know of the agony of fellow oppressed men. And I know of the pains and of abandonment. And I know too that the world will on spin with or without us. Our precious autobiographies becomes a mutilation along of their own becoming. And I pitty them.
But I pass myself poled into the concrete grasp of the ever benign to remind myself of my friends' struggles and agonies, that for them, I will stand still, and walk along to fortify my stillness, and for mine own, fearing that if I step out of the reach towards me I will be crushed into the very pavement were I stood.
So, I'm pinned motionful, neither myself or another, but both, and none. A world passes processed, observed, and I along with it, while  the other remainders I knew or knew of would fade into utter darkness or oblivion... But I'm still, being; amongst those who pass and those who pass on.
And I'm enraged, inblazed by life devaluating day by day, and I pray, for this frey of madness to regress, but alas it doesn't.
And I'm sad. All from point distance from my passing, looking at brassing steelpole monuments, decaying slowly. Is that sane enough for your fancy?

A.r. Bazian (Ft. Bianca H.)
*Oct 30th, 2013

"To hold is to bear the dream a moment, and meanwhile toil still unto the downfall -Regardless, together... However folly and glad!

To die, as all men have and will.
But to having lived?! this is so far as to you that you may have only your dreams to suffice the thought of life with another!
A Life for another!
A dream, merely, to make the sweetest passing onto oblivion, ever sweeter Still!

Having been dying for the long while rather than living, such thought that the brave lot have taken unto with zeal and devotion, is as foolish as is noble.

As meaningless as it is divine.

And as solemn as it is rejoiced!
Still, after all, a dream."

A.r. Bazian
*May 18th, 2014

"There are defining moments when the blossoms bloom in spite of the wind, the reeking dryness of the ice cold plies of travelling light amid concrete, in speeding flight to grasp a sparkle of light, or a quick breeze of air, before their spines crumble and the petals back in despair!

These are the moments when and where, my eyes come fixed in constant stare... and then the nights takes away the plight with restless sleep!

You see, in the midst of all this, all this whirling and twirling, forth comes the sun, then the moon, all too sudden, all too soon... amidst all this noise so out of place, this stone grown pile of grace, and disgrace... so out of pace; the flowers I can see leap for a breath of air! amidst of all this despair, there are flowers out there, stealing their place in time! like the winds plying through the cracks in our old souls, one sweet glance at the braided bedding dawn, against the winds, the sudden winter, and stone! One quick strife for freedom, and then... no more!"

A.r. Bazian
*Mar 21st, 2015