the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image

life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but  we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body

so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning

the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured  flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,  
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being

the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the  field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings

then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born

intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking  
whille a distant star is crushing itself,  
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay

perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies

Thinking and writing
and writing about thinking
While sitting and thinking  
And thinking while sitting
about the feelings
(I feel)
when sinking in the seeking.

Do I go round in circles, turn left or right?
It's all the same, the path leads straight to you.
Was it something I said? Were my words too heavy?
Or was the silence too loud?
Spoke my truth with everything I felt.
Isn't it funny how you're so peaceful,
While I'm lost in thought.
— No shift, no change, you're still the same,
While I’m stuck here spinning out of control!
You’ve carried on with ease.
But the space is still occupied by you,
Time ticks, seconds pass —
waiting for your countdown.
Beyond reason, I still believe,
This is hopelessly a state of flux.

10-12-24

when do you stop crossing my mind
what day
what hour
what time

Rose blood red,
Pricked my finger,
Now the feeling's trapped in my head.

I think it felt okay,
But that's not okay,
I'll save my silly thoughts,
So you know I'm okay.

It's been a while.
The birds keep chirping in the distance,
their melody steady, familiar.
I glance to the side, observing it all.
Was it the atmosphere that had changed,
or was it my heart whispering a thought?

I look down,
lost in reflection,
turning it over and over in my mind.
Now it feels like a cycle—
too many thoughts,
too many wanderings,
looping endlessly.

You like thought puzzles?
Well consider this,

A boy and a girl
Board a train
Desperate to escape the rain
And bump into each other
Due to one hour of travel
Because of one hour of time
A man and a woman walk out