Fragment

I can feel my cells tingling in a frenzy of confusion and longing for your presence, because your absence got them scattered across galaxies looking for you. I feel distant from myself without you. I’m not here.

But when I’m confined in your eyes, I feel freer than in any conceivable utopia. I allow your gaze to consume my flame because I know that I have to keep your soul warm. This is just a preparation – an exercise. We are evaporating symbols of the fog that haunts us in our deepest sleep. It’s confined in dreams we don’t remember, because we’re too busy deafening ourselves with music that seduces and sedates us into non-being. We are the result of a long, hard battle fought against ourselves, and for millennia, we’ve been barely winning.

Here, stay here, or I will reel you in with question marks. I eat up my syllables hoping to grow wiser. You’re the only one I’ve Found.

I’m the lava that decided to breathe, knowing it will freeze by doing so. Its only relief is that it passes on its heat into something that solidifies as an eternal statue, transcending its yell of defiance and reaching the bliss it could never have in its state of unstirred passion before its release.

Love Confined This Spider to Freedom

Midnight caught me at my desk listening to Latin American music, looking at your beautiful big purple crystal for inspiration. Rene Ferrer is singing, and Picasso’s Old Guitarist on my wall is playing his guitar in a spontaneous rush of ecstasy.
Love can’t be counted. Lies are counted.
Love is felt. And the world knows nothing of what that feeling means to me.
That is why I write. You – my tangible mirror. Found me and grabbed me into your universe. I felt your touch and it confined my prison.
It made me wake up (not then, but it happened now, as I’m writing this; still a consequence of that touch!) to the fact that right now, I’m only writing drafts. The images I’m conjuring in my passion are but archetypes with a few webs sown between them. The writing – its external form – is the web (still in its youth). Each word that describes an image is an end of the web, a knot.
To he who has never loved: Behold thy sin! Your heart is free of you! It runs away from your illusions and awaits you at the end of the tunnel you keep on building.
If you want to find it, look behind the web.

Where Dreams Grow

Warm tears to water the soil under my eyelids… where dreams grow…

The only thing standing between us is the rainbow built by the sun’s rays. A bridge between our souls, a playground for us to slide on… mixing colours together to leave behind a more diverse universe… Each smile is a half-moon and decades fly past us in seconds… It’s actually us flying past them…

Faster, away from time and space, we fly.

Matter is nothing but a cluster of complex layers of shadows – a cloth blurring our sight… A cloth that clings like ivy and wraps itself tight over our eyes like skin…

But once we shed it by shedding our light on it, we discover ourselves to be the only reality there ever was.

Always us…

Once the tidal waves fill the symbols on the shore with water, bleeding their brilliance over the moon’s reflection, spilling the world’s secrets to its guardian angel, we will conquer our mind’s confusion and find comfort in each other’s eyes alone…

Need will be erased from our vocabulary and all pain will become bliss in our Heart.

I found you, as simple as that.

Forever, I found you.

Each time, over and over.

No decay, just becoming.

Rebirth until death extinguishes itself.

Tonight, I cried with the moon’s reflection in my eyes… And the moon cried back and bled its silence to mourn my death’s death.

And the world was transfigured before my eyes. I saw what the oceans were hiding and cried another ocean… The universe has its ways of concealing its inmost built-in secrets.

All songs end in silence… The most beautiful silence. The same silence that has our gazes entangled.

Where will I find you after the Flood?

I wish I could keep these tears embedded with your reflection forever…

I’ve waited all my life at the gates of Mystery alone…

Now, I finally have someone to wait with…

Their opening is certain… It is the symbol of certainty itself. But it is up to us not to enter alone.

Will you hold my hand when our gaze slips within itself?

Will you meet me when we take our first breath into eternity?

This story has no ending. It doesn’t matter if I keep writing or not, it will write and fulfill itself…

Life has no conclusion to offer us, but our hearts do.

Near

Far.
I swing my heap of gold.
Into unknown territory.
It was eating me alive.
But I conquered it.
It was as if a cobra was dancing on my belly while I was chained to the ground.
Funnily enough, I got rid of that feeling simply by closing my eyes.
Not by imagining I’m in some other place.
Just by closing my eyes and doing nothing.
Accepting the impending death. Come on, get on with it.
But then I opened them. And what I saw was definitely not what I expected.
I didn’t expect anything actually. I have no idea what happened. To this day.
But it happened.
And so, I must say. I am grateful for it.
For almost getting killed.
Maybe I did get killed and now I’m in a higher state of consciousness, but apparently in the same body. I don’t know.
But what I saw was that I had no heap of gold to begin with. It was all a shiny illusion.
And it was so easy to let go of it.
It was required of me to do so. Otherwise, maybe I would’ve actually gotten killed.
It was a test to see if I’m true to myself.
Well. Now I’m just sitting lazily and enjoying the snake’s dance, wondering what happens next.

Samsara

The heart holds strong bonds with the truth. The more it is allowed to roam free, the more connections it will make.
But those connections will be severed by the mind’s search for unwitting pleasure. In a miserable attempt to mimic the heart’s ingenuity, it fails to realise that it’s causing nothing but damage. That it’s so easy to just go back to being obedient to the heart. Because the heart is a good master. It does not fool the mind. It is only the mind that is capable of fooling. The heart knows no such thing. The heart is innocent. The heart is pure. The heart rejoices in the singing of the birds, while the mind doesn’t even hear them. The heart trembles before a grieving soul, while the mind does its best to avoid being affected. We must sit straight, have clean clothes, write legibly, stick to concrete facts, as if the truth was something outside of you, alien to you. As if you’re in a dark room, trying to write an essay to God, to convince him that you’re worthy of Heaven. All this while saying to yourself, God doesn’t exist. What a silly torture! The mind trembles before truth. The mind trembles before the real "concrete facts". The mind falls down, starts stuttering and looks for an exit. The heart smiles warmly to gesture its appreciation and its love for truth. So vivid, so simple, yet so cleverly hidden in plain sight. Walking down the street, one might stumble across such a moment of clarity and of pure joy and inner bliss. But then he is reminded by the big adverts that he’s a consumer and it all becomes dust and fairytales. Blah, why do I drift off to such stupid ideas?

An Orchid's Light By The Stairs

He followed her to the last floor, where she fell silent.

“I suppose I’ve changed my tune.”

She turned around.

“Fine.”

How much longer will she last?

He kept following her.

They got to the railway station.

“It’s cold.”

He promised he’d always keep a place for her.

“My heart is warm.”

He wandered on the tracks, looking for the train.

She took a step back.

“Would you like me to wait inside?” he asked, smiling.

And suddenly he disappeared.

She felt as though her will had been dislocated.

His voice was in the back of her head.

“You do it for others. Won’t you do it for me?”

“I don’t see how I can. It’s not that I don’t pity you. But one has to do it one’s own way.”

“Perhaps it is so. I’m not desperate.  But I want you.”

Where would it take her?

Distance didn’t matter. It was always a journey of ever-lasting growth for the soul.

Expansion of awareness.

She saw an orchid growing out of the concrete right beside the stairs.

“How simple it would be to just pick it up and throw it on the tracks.”

She didn’t know what to do.

Neither did he.

Nonetheless, the train would come soon.

It was getting cold.

She was combing her hair. It helped her to concentrate.

How much longer will she last?

“Fine.”

But it was too late. The train was coming. She could hear it.

“Come on!”

But he stayed hidden.

Only with a snap of the fingers, he could make the train stop dead in its tracks.

But he waited.

What if he allowed it to come?

Would she throw the orchid on the tracks?

Only actions will tell.

“What are you doing?”

He punched the wall and broke his fist. No pain, no gain.

With his bleeding hand he kneeled down and looked at the flower. A tear fell on its soft petal.

Suddenly, a blinding light burst out of the orchid. He didn’t understand it. She was sitting on a bench, watching this strange occurrence unfold.

“You’re mad.”

He smiled.

“Yes. But look at this.”

Suddenly she saw it. Something so strange and pure that it made her cry.

So he snapped his fingers.

The flapping of a bird’s wings could be heard from where she was sitting.

She looked around but couldn’t sight the bird.

“Still wondering where it is?”

Staring at the ground, seeing her own shadow dance like a river, she finally understood.

None of it made sense. Yet, at least.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Suddenly, they were swimming in light.

What happened to the train?

“What train?”

A Promise

You said you would write something. You made that promise. Are your promises all hollow words, carved out of dreams? There is a difference between ideals and reaching them.

You have to run fast to reach them. Because first of all, karma is chasing you from behind, and second of all, your dreams are running away from you. If you look back to when you were little, you can remember how your dreams were right there, with you. Your mind was so creative and beautiful that you were in perfect balance with your dreams. You lived, you loved and you laughed.

Then you were taught to fear. Fear school teachers that punish you if you get bad grades, that yell at you if you misbehave, that shun your imagination and tell you you need to learn by heart instead of learning with your heart. Fear strangers who might kidnap you if you’re walking alone down the street. Fear the homeless because they’re dirty, crazy drug addicts. Fear change, because we need to adapt to a situation and put our grip on it as if there is no other. Fear love, because love makes fools of men. Fear yourself, because you represent a potential danger to society. Fear your wildest dreams, for they are nothing but nonsensical, childish reveries.

You were taught to love fear and to fear love.

So how can I trust you when you say ‘you promise’ when you function through fear and distrust? How can we live with Machiavellian ethics and expect to flourish as Aristotle? How can we find God if we fear change and we fear the unknown? How can you besiege the fortress of your fears when you are on your knees for its King? How can you assuage your own pain if you are indifferent to the pain of others? Do you look in the mirror and see yourself? Or do you see the shadow of a child whose mind brought wonders to the world?

If only I knew how to write when I was 3 years old. I would’ve written the greatest book of all. If my love for the world wouldn’t have faded away along with my will to do anything to reach my freedom and my happiness, which now I only pretend to still have, I would’ve been able to guide the world with my Light. Instead, when I look in the mirror, into my eyes, I’m blinded by the glimmering light of the child that withered, drowned by hopelessness.

Now I’m left only with one hope. The hope that one day, that child will be reborn like a mighty Phoenix, flying over the world’s sorrows into the night’s visions of Utopia. A vision where he is running free, without the worries of a mean karma chasing him or of a dream running away from him.

The Light

We adapted to the Sun. Our eyes only see what the Sun shines upon. If there is no sunlight, there is no physical vision.

In darkness, our third eye opens. With the third eye, we see reality. It gives us the knowledge and the light of the Good.

The dilemma is how to keep your sanity. There is no vision lens for the third eye.

Fortunately, the light of the Good never burns, because the Pineal Gland is filled with water.

However, the water can calcify, which is why it is necessary to avoid fluoride.

Plato knew all this. Why is it that after thousands of years of humanity having this knowledge, we choose to ignore it now?

We live in the Era of Darkness, where we are bombarded with information, but we lack knowledge.

Even our Clouds are illusions. Chemtrails that kill us. We believe in a fake Paradise. We live in a scientific dictatorship, where everyone is blind, dancing the nihilist dance.

We drink poison and quickly feast upon invisible food.

We allow ourselves to be pleasured by the suffering of others. We are the Modern Man, who is better than everyone else. The Modern Man is a White Man lying to the rest of the world. If you are a White Man, you have Privileges. If not, then you are graded using racial and sexual profiling. If you are African or Asian, you are destined to a miserable life. No need for further details, you know them very well. The White Man lives with double-think, unaware of his Privileges, but in the same time keeping them in his pocket, like a Debit Card. Their safety is banked.

Ignorance is blister.

Infected. Snake bite.

We are back in the Cave.

Our fate has been written before the beginning of time.

Here, have this addiction. Follow this routine for all your life. Allow me to inject you with the cure of Cognitive Dissonance. It will allow you the illusion of happiness. Your mind will always be stuck in the mind state that I want the collective to have. Collective mind control. Military dictatorship. Waking up is equal to a fish going on land. Awakened people are no longer adapted to the environment I’ve created. I succeeded in playing God by modifying the natural route of evolution. I have no face, but I have the world to myself. I can squash the whole population like a cockroach under my foot, but I’m disgusted to do it barefoot, so I’ll put my Army shoes on. Then I can toss the Army shoes in the bin. Maybe that’s exactly what I’ll do. The world is my basketball. I can make the majority believe a whole continent is smaller than it really is. Africa is not important. No one needs to know its real size. 2 + 2 = 5. I am Big Brother.

I am O’Brien. I am the resistance. I am Winston. I am the only one who is. I am the powerful, akrasian leader. My will is not mine, actually. I’m the Devil’s puppet, but I don’t mind. He’s leading me to more and more power, and it feels so good. I have no patience to comprehend my condition. I am the elite. I am the perfect human, and nothing more. I do not wish to be anything else. I wish to be immortal and all-powerful. I own 7 billion people in the physical and in the mental form. Why would I give that up? How could I give it up when I’m the highest you can get? This power is by far the best drug in the world. My world. That’s how I know. I know everything. I know everything because everything is created by me. Double-think is the perfect mind-state. I’ll make sure you wave and smile at me even when you leave. You’ll thank me for destroying all trace of humanity, because my mind state replaced yours before you were even born. You don’t even exist. You have no rights, no freedom. Your only freedom is the freedom to die. Get off my planet, you disgusting cockroach. There is no light here. I turned it off.