this endless procession of luminous shapes of darknes,
of blindind lights full of dark stories passing through
everything my mind can envision
thoughts slowly growing like trees with imaginary roots
to dygest to recycle the unbearably bearable
a true psychic cosmology cause life creates
by destroying, destroys by creating
I need to examine my dreams, not the alphabet of dreaming
-symbolic transformation, not equation-
the terror to be so alive in an unresponsive world
it is pain that turns my thoughts into wax figures
I want to deny that words have a heart of stone cause they might deny their nature
in the beginning was the word, or the emotional field, the primeval soup of vibrations
you are not what you know, you are not what you perceive, you are the one to be felt and let go of
we are all that is unbearably bearable

I grew up longing to be found
on a deserted place where the stories
told 'I shouldn't have meant to be there', counting the dead until I become them. I was written on old houses as I was left haunted and reminisced on melancholic belonging.

However, it is her rising, the beginning, the becoming.

I am a chest filled with lullabies, it is my reaching to the world to heal my heart, and a calling of the ocean, where my love belongs.

"Contentment is a synonym for loneliness, cool loneliness, settling down with cool loneliness. We give up believing that being able to escape our loneliness is going to bring any lasting happiness or joy or sense of well-being or courage or strength. Usually we have to give up this belief about a billion times, again and again making friends with our jumpiness and dread, doing the same old thing a billion times with awareness. Then without our even noticing, something begins to shift. We can just be lonely with no alternatives, content to be right here with the mood and texture of what’s happening."

"it allows us to finally discover a completely unfabricated state of being. Our habitual assumptions — all our ideas about how things are — keep us from seeing anything in a fresh, open way… We don’t ultimately know anything. There’s no certainty about anything. This basic truth hurts, and we want to run away from it. But coming back and relaxing with something as familiar as loneliness is good discipline for realizing the profundity of the unresolved moments of our lives. We are cheating ourselves when we run away from the ambiguity of loneliness."

"Cool loneliness allows us to look honestly and without aggression at our own minds. We can gradually drop our ideals of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look directly with compassion and humor at who we are. Then loneliness is no threat and heartache, no punishment. Cool loneliness doesn’t provide any resolution or give us ground under our feet. It challenges us to step into a world of no reference point without polarizing or solidifying. This is called the middle way, or the sacred path of the warrior."

by Pema Chodron from "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advise for Difficult Times"

pain loves the present tense
it loves gravity so that the clouds
are turned into geological strata
sometimes I use my hands like an anaesthetic
between right and wrong the pain dillema:
to feel or not to feel (the unknown)
we discover clever remedies or illusions
quiet cannery in the storehouse of flesh

it comes in circles mixtures all kind of names
it has rythm texture electric blackness
each unshed tear an orb of contraction
compulsive excavation of the void inside
sometimes I feel I have canyons of salt in my heart
on the edges of safety so much to learn about terror

this pain is a blind Robinson on Hope island
(with his bare hands he sets pyres in his heart)
was it pain that invented this language, these holy wars?
love you, hate you, nonsense, can't stand it anymore
I know my father lied to me that he doesn't feel pain

bodies in pain can't dream the water slide of life
that might take us further away into the night of day
time to say thank you, say farewell,
love everything that simply is
it is time to

but who are you, Theseus, what is your name
behind the name that I call even in my sleep
when there is no memory of the worlds
you have founded
and will

what stays hidden beneath your name that I whisper
with a hunger older than ourselves
with a thirst so fresh in the fleeting moment
that words to name it have yet to be born

who are you to me, Theseus
my lord of many lives
and a hidden essence?

who? the labyrinth of days
shows me a different you
every time I open my eyes

it’s my words that ask, not I

not I who can listen to you with my skin
and can feel you with my hearing,
taste and touch and arrest with a gaze
across expanses bending over the horizon

bridge over the water
cobweb over cliffs
joy
joy over joy

a life-saving answer
maybe
to the riddle
when the time comes

by Ioana Ieronim from Ariadne's Veil

I'm scared that 'becoming' who I am is just an acceptance of realities others have created. Maybe the older we get the more entrenched we become in what we perceive to be the truth; the more we experience of our tiny existence, the more we believe in it.
"The way of life we live, a life we have never really chosen, forces us to walk past what we see."

Wandering in and out of what could be

I used to fear a missed opportunity

Now I’m thankful for what I lost
Despite the pain,
I grew into who I am.