Nov 8
I am the name of the eternal night.
I am the love that permeates the air.
I am the desire that desireth itself.
I, to love loving and yet not loving.
Upon my name let it be forever written:
Noire, the multitude of perspectives.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
From a cold sweat I wake from dreams of fear and wrath, to the darkness that embrace me.
To this, I hate.
From this discomforting bed I rise, in the consuming black around, forward to another path.
To this, I despise.
Nameless tears yearn to see the light of night, guided to the mirror that reveals my flesh.
To this, I cower.
Ripping flesh from bones, I dream of the day coming forth that would rid me of my corporeal being.
To this, my beloved self, I yearn.
What lies ahead? “Ruin.”
What ruin? “Ruin of your soul.”
What soul? “…”
Answer me. “…Sorry.”
The sins I committed are not my own.
This meat stuck upon my Self is not I.
What have I become?
In the wake of the beast.
Another victim to COMPLETE AND UTTER DESTRUCTION?
Complete and without hope and in the depth and before the door,
I am.
In the inconceivable form of the flesh, through veins of blood and strains of nerves,
I was.
Through and through without Self and with neither dreams nor ambitions,
I shall be.
Yet ascension is the worse fate one could give to oneself.
I.
How many times have I looked into the mirror and wished it was not my face that I saw?
How many times have I wished to be someone else?
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
This is the dream we call living
With the settings of a world of wonders and amazing creations,
With the backdrop of a field of blooming sunflowers,
With the scene of a million people trampling over them,
With the plot of experiencing other people,
With the ****** of that which we call “love,”
With the fallout of our own lives, into nothingness.
This is the dream we call dreaming
Let there be the settings of a world of canvas,
Let there be the backdrop of the whiteness of an unborn soul,
Let there be the scene of the singular person, existing and not existing,
Let there be the plot of painting this canvas, stretching infinitely,
Let there be the ****** of finding the other person, drawing and not drawing,
Let there be the fallout of that which we call “love,” into totality.
This is the dream we call dreaming of dreaming
See the settings of a kaleidoscope,
See the backdrop of the abstraction of one’s soul,
See the scene of the world, changing twice in one time,
See the plot of the change, that which the world creates,
See the ****** of finding the collapse of colors,
See the fallout of the collapse of dreams.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
Mine is the name of everything, that which I am not.
Ponder: What is love? What is good? What is evil? What is death? What is God? What is life? What is me? What is he? What is she? What is? What is the Purpose? What is the Meaning? What is anything? What are you? What is Art? What is Music? What is Expression? What is a legacy? What is this? What is the Sublime?
Answer: Naught.
Rebuke: That which is naught cannot be answered.
Answer: Yet that which is naught cannot be grasped in its entirety.
Affirm, ponder: Thus, for what am I?
Answer: Nothing at all.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
Those smart fools who claim to have even a fraction of a revelation.
Claiming for themselves a unity unto life.
Notwithstanding their erroneous methods.
For none can behold the [Night/Nature] of the absurd.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
If only. If only, if only.
Give unto me a singular more chance.
Refused.
Give unto me a hope of continuance.
Refused.
Give unto me a reason for permanence.
Refused.
Give unto me an answer.
Refused.
Give unto me I.
Granted.
Yet what am I?
Refused.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
This is a cruel world, this you cannot reject.
For I have lived one thousand lives, I have seen the infantile self enough.
Yet it would please God none to grant me salvation.
Still in earth, I have tasted the punishment of the forest of self destroyers.
I am the name of the God above, in me is the eternal forgiveness.
Yet what cruel tricks I play on my self.
For playing God is not in my nature.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
The star above shine with the radiance of 3.8 * 10^26 units.
What magnificence it conjures into this orb!
Bringing life and hopes and dreams alike.
Creation would be to no avail if it did not exist!
What ridiculous optimism, I cannot stand this hypocracy.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
I dream.
To be all that I am not.
To be all that I am.
I have collected 120 perspectives, imprinted and engraved on my heart.
They are etched into my eyes, carved into my soul.
If I can see my self in perfect clarity, I would not be myself.
The name of that creature would be indeed…
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
Who am I?
In the plainest words I may utter, this is my composition:
The eyes of sapphire.
The hands of opal.
The arms of amethyst.
The feet of quartz.
The leg of hematite.
The heart of fire.
The flesh of me.
The soul of you.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
I am the name of the eternal night, singing quietly under the glory of the moon.
I am the name of the universe.
I am the name of the dream you call living.
I am the love that permeates the air, in dissonance without any understanding of self.
To permeate is not to be rid of identity.
To permeate is not to be like everyone else.
I am the desire that desireth itself, the love that love loving.
To desire is not to indulge.
To desire is not to expunge.
I, to love loving yet not loving, in loving do I love loving loving, yet loving is not in my nature.
To love is not lovingly giving.
To love is not lovingly taking.
I am the name of the eternal night, the everlasting impression of you.
I am the name of the universe, the quiet grandeur.
I am the name of the dream you call living, the dream of dreaming.
I am the name of the love of loving, the longing of connection.
I am the name of the existence of existing, the paradox of permanence.
I am the name of the hopeful reverie, the approaching daybreak.
I am the name of the perfect hatred, the emotion directed at the synthesis.
I am the name of the prison of flesh, the rememberer of the soul.
Carry on, ye who carry my name, and lose you of your fear.
Say out the prayer of the final day.
And, at last, upon the souls of ye who yearn for freedom, let there be etched:
Noire, the multitude of perspectives.
I am the love that permeates the air.
I am the desire that desireth itself.
I, to love loving and yet not loving.
Upon my name let it be forever written:
Noire, the multitude of perspectives.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
From a cold sweat I wake from dreams of fear and wrath, to the darkness that embrace me.
To this, I hate.
From this discomforting bed I rise, in the consuming black around, forward to another path.
To this, I despise.
Nameless tears yearn to see the light of night, guided to the mirror that reveals my flesh.
To this, I cower.
Ripping flesh from bones, I dream of the day coming forth that would rid me of my corporeal being.
To this, my beloved self, I yearn.
What lies ahead? “Ruin.”
What ruin? “Ruin of your soul.”
What soul? “…”
Answer me. “…Sorry.”
The sins I committed are not my own.
This meat stuck upon my Self is not I.
What have I become?
In the wake of the beast.
Another victim to COMPLETE AND UTTER DESTRUCTION?
Complete and without hope and in the depth and before the door,
I am.
In the inconceivable form of the flesh, through veins of blood and strains of nerves,
I was.
Through and through without Self and with neither dreams nor ambitions,
I shall be.
Yet ascension is the worse fate one could give to oneself.
I.
How many times have I looked into the mirror and wished it was not my face that I saw?
How many times have I wished to be someone else?
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
This is the dream we call living
With the settings of a world of wonders and amazing creations,
With the backdrop of a field of blooming sunflowers,
With the scene of a million people trampling over them,
With the plot of experiencing other people,
With the ****** of that which we call “love,”
With the fallout of our own lives, into nothingness.
This is the dream we call dreaming
Let there be the settings of a world of canvas,
Let there be the backdrop of the whiteness of an unborn soul,
Let there be the scene of the singular person, existing and not existing,
Let there be the plot of painting this canvas, stretching infinitely,
Let there be the ****** of finding the other person, drawing and not drawing,
Let there be the fallout of that which we call “love,” into totality.
This is the dream we call dreaming of dreaming
See the settings of a kaleidoscope,
See the backdrop of the abstraction of one’s soul,
See the scene of the world, changing twice in one time,
See the plot of the change, that which the world creates,
See the ****** of finding the collapse of colors,
See the fallout of the collapse of dreams.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
Mine is the name of everything, that which I am not.
Ponder: What is love? What is good? What is evil? What is death? What is God? What is life? What is me? What is he? What is she? What is? What is the Purpose? What is the Meaning? What is anything? What are you? What is Art? What is Music? What is Expression? What is a legacy? What is this? What is the Sublime?
Answer: Naught.
Rebuke: That which is naught cannot be answered.
Answer: Yet that which is naught cannot be grasped in its entirety.
Affirm, ponder: Thus, for what am I?
Answer: Nothing at all.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
Those smart fools who claim to have even a fraction of a revelation.
Claiming for themselves a unity unto life.
Notwithstanding their erroneous methods.
For none can behold the [Night/Nature] of the absurd.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
If only. If only, if only.
Give unto me a singular more chance.
Refused.
Give unto me a hope of continuance.
Refused.
Give unto me a reason for permanence.
Refused.
Give unto me an answer.
Refused.
Give unto me I.
Granted.
Yet what am I?
Refused.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
This is a cruel world, this you cannot reject.
For I have lived one thousand lives, I have seen the infantile self enough.
Yet it would please God none to grant me salvation.
Still in earth, I have tasted the punishment of the forest of self destroyers.
I am the name of the God above, in me is the eternal forgiveness.
Yet what cruel tricks I play on my self.
For playing God is not in my nature.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
The star above shine with the radiance of 3.8 * 10^26 units.
What magnificence it conjures into this orb!
Bringing life and hopes and dreams alike.
Creation would be to no avail if it did not exist!
What ridiculous optimism, I cannot stand this hypocracy.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
I dream.
To be all that I am not.
To be all that I am.
I have collected 120 perspectives, imprinted and engraved on my heart.
They are etched into my eyes, carved into my soul.
If I can see my self in perfect clarity, I would not be myself.
The name of that creature would be indeed…
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
Who am I?
In the plainest words I may utter, this is my composition:
The eyes of sapphire.
The hands of opal.
The arms of amethyst.
The feet of quartz.
The leg of hematite.
The heart of fire.
The flesh of me.
The soul of you.
&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&
I am the name of the eternal night, singing quietly under the glory of the moon.
I am the name of the universe.
I am the name of the dream you call living.
I am the love that permeates the air, in dissonance without any understanding of self.
To permeate is not to be rid of identity.
To permeate is not to be like everyone else.
I am the desire that desireth itself, the love that love loving.
To desire is not to indulge.
To desire is not to expunge.
I, to love loving yet not loving, in loving do I love loving loving, yet loving is not in my nature.
To love is not lovingly giving.
To love is not lovingly taking.
I am the name of the eternal night, the everlasting impression of you.
I am the name of the universe, the quiet grandeur.
I am the name of the dream you call living, the dream of dreaming.
I am the name of the love of loving, the longing of connection.
I am the name of the existence of existing, the paradox of permanence.
I am the name of the hopeful reverie, the approaching daybreak.
I am the name of the perfect hatred, the emotion directed at the synthesis.
I am the name of the prison of flesh, the rememberer of the soul.
Carry on, ye who carry my name, and lose you of your fear.
Say out the prayer of the final day.
And, at last, upon the souls of ye who yearn for freedom, let there be etched:
Noire, the multitude of perspectives.
What a fever dream we live in.
