Those who choose to live
survive by daring themselves.
New sorrows, new triumphs…
old loves, and a self
that remains sincere
in a life in becoming.
And in the end,
what is His
shall also be ours,
as one.

Hope lies within reach
of those who, alone,
cross their own gates
on the highest mountains —
accessible only within.

Our journey,
a field to be cleared
with bare hands.
Calluses hold stories,
and weeds left uncut
grow wild,
until they cover the soul.

We are rescued
with every stumble.
And upon reaching the summit,
our sorrows
dissolve into the clouds.
Beneath the sunlight,
we reveal ourselves, at last,
for the very first time.

Do not rewrite the past.
No hand can erase
what time has carved
in wounded skin.

Let your oldest notebook
inscribe the first line
of a new tale —
written in fresh tears
and the sweat
of becoming
a future still unfolding.

Our dream,
an eternal spring.
And on awakening, a glimpse
of days ever gray
and lies of a sun
that never shows itself.

The nightmare of living,
corroded by days
that are not ours.

A being without essence—
like plastic flowers
in a golden vase,
handmade.

Insipid victories:
false perfumes
that barely linger,
their scent soon sours.

Be an anonymous artist,
shaping the life of dreams.
And may your art
suffice in itself,
so you never bow
against your truest self.

May your will dispel
the dark clouds,
and may your days
become, at last,
always spring.

Life is an empty void—A mistake that happened on purpose. I would know, after all I created it. But whom created me? I am a curse—what if the god in the sky never knew what put them there? The day I existed was a day before “day” was created. Looked at my hands and saw a glove and never knew the wearer. Like someone without a story I decided to create one. Let there be light, let there be shoes, let there be meaning and a star and flute. I need answers on why I am the puppet man—on why I exist.

I created life to find the meaning of my own. The first thing I ever saw was nothingness I wish I was like other gods with answer to all, but the only question I can answer is what breed of dog you have. I called life a tree as joke—but people took it seriously. Why do I eat? Why do I cry? What is true meaning? How does it feel to die? I wish I was a mortal so being controlled will not hurt. Why is life? Why do I live?

I am tired of pulling this strings. But if I was to let go I don't know what would happen. A philosopher once asked me, "If you are all great and mighty, create a question you can't answer." I already did. Someone said meaning is in the absurd. My existence is absurd not meaningful.

I am thinking of you - as of a corpse
Go on and tell me all the lies
I am at legs of yours - heart-sunken
Eyes are dull - do eat the flesh I offer
The sole emasculation - paganism of truth
For asking hand is beaten - better
Deserters' solitude - abandoned hope
For never leaving guilt - ashamed
Of silence - welcoming to home
Seen flaws - are signs of given
Conscience - though shut - is mouth
Inaction - tethering regret to sorrow
And misery is standing by the side
Impersonating whole of circus
For beggar is forborn attention
"I'm here" - the drowning whisper
Arms choking throat - hand traces
Running tear - "I'm with you"
Caressing warmth of lifeless palm
Invites the strengthening of strangling
For frail innocence is crippled dome
"I do forgive you"

Consciousness is the ideal—the lens through which I experience life.
I see a cup, a beautiful one. I hear songs as I eat pineapple.
Each part of me coexists in total sense, yet meaningless.
And I cry—because I am living.
And living makes me happy?
That’s why I cry: because I am conscious.

Each step is complex, yet simple.
Smelling the air, filling with breeze—
it makes me feel squished, but in a good way.
Every thought has a factory behind it.
But what if there is no grand scheme?
What if things are just thinging—
a path we all made, walking forward because we can?

I will die. I know.
It makes me sad.
But that sadness—
that sadness is the happiness
I feel because I am alive.
So is consciousness an apple?
Or am I the apple?

Are we one?
Are we all?
When I die, is it the darkness?
Or the light?
Is it Buddha? YHWH? Hades?
Or just a mimicry of my imagination?

If consciousness is the apple,
am I truly consciousness?
But if I am the apple,
and I die today,
is there meaning in everything?

If there isn’t—
then the sun is a dancing snake
with seventeen eyes,
and no one can change my mind.

But if there is meaning,
then all truths are real,
and there will be no perfect.

Perfect is like beauty—
it is its own dictionary.
I see beauty in green grass and a world of blue.
Someone else sees it in a girl with long eyelashes.
So someone can be perfect.
But no one can.
It sounds like a paradox, but it isn’t.

You can be someone’s perfect—
but are you mine?
And what of the other eight billion people?
Do the ant, the lion,
and the baby giraffe have opinions, too?

Is consciousness a camera?
Or is it the apple again?

And how can God create in His image,
but not make perfection,
if God is perfect?

“I” is a character.
“We” is a symbol.
And I—I mean I—
I would rather live a meaningless life
than be a story with meaning.

Because in a story,
I am conscious,
but not living—
just controlled
by the puppet man with a beard
or the blue man who holds the world.

No, no, no.
Maybe it’s just a quote.
Or maybe it’s nothing at all.

So is the apple—
the one we know as consciousness—
sweet?
Or sour?

I think...
we just eat the apple.
I mean just one.

If it’s sweet—smile.
If it’s sour—
smile when the next one comes.

A discarded white canvas,
that stares with hazy eyes.
It sees me contemplating
as I smile and cry.
  
I try intuition.
I try to forget the insults,
the petty competition.
  
Yet, the ink flows not
and the infinite cackles.
A million choices,
a singular outcome.
A singularity of
a dozen truths,
a dozen lies,
and a dozen perspectives.
  
“What do I say?”
  
The canvas smiles,
and my heart giggles.
  
They open their mouths to answer.
  
“Be as you are.”

A prion.
A parasite.
A writhing mass.

It is woven into one,
not by needle,
nor machine,
but by absence.

It is kind.
It destroys the mind.
It seeks a way.
Yet hated it remains.

Silently within,
pulsating with darkness,
twisting with curiosity,
it craves mercy.

A decay and a rot,
one not of flesh and bone.
This is one of isolation,
this is being alone.

A belief is a thought I believe in.
Only thoughts that we believe in become our beliefs.