Standing in marble awe,
contemplating this winter night, my soul searching continues, ruining the age of another wine. Walk with me, in the maze park. The north will settle, we'll light another cigar. Here lies, optional, my emotional litter - the tiredness of walking over water and taking over the sins. Paying no mind to this finite state - the gone moment of our walk lingering on the shoulders of my solitude. See, these are simple equations, and they are my solace - the exciting unknown divided by knowledge. This is dawn setting on someones window, yet to bloom, yet to rise.
There’s no crime
in writing. It has always been here: the thrill of choosing the words that benefit other words the most. There’s a simple rule in writing (maybe the only 1): A thought comes out and hopefully, when written down, turned into strings of words, the idea it provides may provoke an exciting way of seeing the world. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes, it never does. To some, words are enough. Others need music or imagery. I guess to each his own and that might serve the truth that we, each of us, are Unique and that in our Differences we get excited by our own Differences, which in turn provide us of our own Uniquenesses. But whatever: I say what I say, at the end of the day. And your judgement is your own. Still, truth be told, no harm done in letting it all out, all at once.
words are this: the perimeter of reason. And if you solve the puzzle and order them correctly, you can calculate the area of the entire universe, and no more will you be lost in its complex mysteries.
I remember the most beautiful moment of my life.
I couldn't have been 4. Everybody was gathered in the park, a gathering to watch the sunset and there was music playing. This was a single moment lost in the 90s fever: The singer had just died, and I think we were celebrating his poetry or his clinginess to life. But at the same time, nobody was talking about it. There was just silence and the sunset - a meaningless collection of sensations to all but a childish mind. I've since tried to talk to some of the people I reckon were there, but none of them recall any of it happening. They would have me believe the best moment of my life was a dream.
in a mental december haze
looking out the window for my love. it's the falling season of motions in the leaves that gather around and cover the ground, and the lost road now belongs to those whose feet wander around not searching for nothing, yet finders of all that is worth.
rain mingled with the sun. I remember a day when purpose could be found with ease, now, I strive: what once was winter love has touched the summers of my life and forever molded the seasons. poetry became too personal. At some point, the pain was too real when put into words, and that is why I turned to music. When making music, your feelings are also mingled with the notes, and you don't feel any pain. It's incredibly beautiful, just like a poem, but it doesn't hurt you. But I can't stop to wonder that all these things are a filler to hold on on this ever maddening road, until the time is right for us to meet again. because that's where my life really shines, right? I won't remember the filler days. I live for the moments that we create together, and maybe the art that I produce out of it. But that's it, sadly... or happily. I know I'd trade it all - the most beautiful poem or melody, it doesn't mean a thing to me when put next to what you mean to me.
And maybe we could forgive
the days we wasted away from each other, longing to be surrounded by each other's arms. Oh and perhaps we could start again all over like a newborn cloud in the empty blue of a sky Yes. I'd like that. I'd make it possible any day, if it was up to me. Renewal. Darling, the road was full with other places to go to, and as you know sometimes we lose the track of time and the track itself becomes another road. I'm sick of conquering the world with art and my eloquent speech that never left the paper, where it was carefully crafted and refined. I need nothing. I am what I am and I conquer a part of reality with that that I am. If you love me now drop a letter. This is the real me. Feel it. A weird beauty of being alive by your side. If you love me as I am now, you are a fool, because the real me is out there, somewhere, waiting to be reinvented by endless roads. I only ask you to be a part of those endless roads, and forget the first and the last kiss, and love me in between.