Dark Surprise

Dark surprises. In the search. And the search goes on. My eyes on a certain one and no other. She could be my dark surprise. Light within the dark, or only dark? I will have to wait and see. And at times there is denial, of myself, mainly. And there are memories that still haunt. Happenings of the past that amounted to nothing really. Sometimes I wish to get away from this self. And I wonder if I could've been born another person. With another life, with other thinking. With other feelings and with a different mind. And on this day, I just have the feeling that I wish to relax, and be easy.

The Thought Police

Shampooed and conditioned with political correctness. The thought police are in town, and they mean to reach inside of your head. There are no names nor faces to speak of. They withhold the democratic rights, that they probably profess to believe in. They wish to colour your opinions with guilt. They wish for you not to be free for personal expression. And they wish for sameness, because they can gain some kind of narrow comfort from it. They are opposed to imagination and creativity. They fear people who refuse to be the same as they are, when they are bland and shallow, and above all are insecure and fearful. They believe in 'wings' in Political rhetoric and the causes of their 'right' or their left. Their ideas are outmoded and obsolete, and beneath free thinking. They are dictators, and they despise truth. They hunger after their own vanity, wishing for it a general acceptance. And the thought police wish to take from you, your freedom. They would like you not to question any single thing of them. If you don't feel and think the same as they do, then they are at war with what they could very well term the proletariat. And they condescend, deeming you not as an equal, but as a lesser human, with lesser rights. I hereby declare war on the thought police.

Truth and the Struggle for Truth.

There is light in the shadows. Ties, even familial, cannot be perfectly broken. All, is a part of the whole. Memory is a truthful guide. It must be consulted and trusted and believed in. This picture cannot be denied only ignored. Life runs its course. It is complete in itself. It isn't of one scene or another, it is of the totality of things experienced. And memory is the gift that leads to a truth, not the perfect truth, as this isn't given to man or woman. The truth belongs to God, and he only allows us to know what we deserve to know I believe. There is as always, the fight for truth. It cannot be known purely with mind. The truth is still not available with mind, no matter how smart we may think that we are. I believe that humility and memory are more of a way to truth. And there is soul and spirit in the shadows. I believe that they are closer to truth than mind is. And I am tried and I am challenged, but I won't relent. Truth is the greatest word that I have ever been aware of. And if I can't find truth, then I will find my personal honesty, no matter what the price may be to pay for it. And hurt can be overtaken. It can be subdued. What is it anyway but negative feeling towards the self? Or an assault by injustice? And injustice is in itself, an assault of cruelty and inconsideration. Empathy and compassion, have been left behind. Love has been confronted, by at the very least, indifference. And perhaps it has been confronted by evil.

Night and Day

And the night comes again, when the day relents.

We Celebrate the Sun

And we celebrate the sun In the peaceful spirit of tranquility.

What is the Way to the Truth of Dream?

Searching for truth in the secrets of dream. Faces appear, some known, some unknown. Sometimes the expected and ordinary, and sometimes the unexpected and extraordinary. I wonder if sleep was meant for dreamers, or if dreams were meant for sleep. And I wonder how one can connect with the truth in the secrets of dream. And does dream hold truth anyway? And who is the dream maker? And are there more forces at work, than just I? And what is the way to the truth of dream?

Memories of Life

And a good memory is a serious recognition of this visit to life. Respectful, very, of the then and the now. And to be haunted by it, is also to haunt it. And who is in charge>? Life or this particular life? Or is there a good relationship between the two? There is no escape, and the immediate answers only create questions. And then there is the experience of looking at the lives of others, attempting to perceive what their experiences of this very same thing is. Futile of course, And criticism of others on this same road, leads to more futility. Perhaps it returns one to the emptiness within. And how far can one go, before bringing God into the picture? He is the one who knows when we certainly don't. And he refuses to grant to us the understanding of truth. We are like a dog that is kept on a close rein. And within this closely held rein, we can become overcome with our abilities and what we perceive to be successes. And this is the vanity of an humanity free of God.

New Post

Heat on a page, and the world is becoming colder. She doesn't care, and neither do I at this stage. Love has retired. It is gone. And the closest thing that I can find to love is music. And I've been searching with my memories, and sometimes I think that memories are not a good place to be. And sometimes I think that they are a good place to be. And I do believe that there is someone in my head in my dreams in the night. My thinking is that my mind could not possibly be this crazy. And in the evening I look back on the day, and where I went to on my daily walk. And today I walked strangely. I had walked a route that I had never quite been before. And I am tempted to walk the same route once again, or something similar to it. And this evening, there is warmth in the air, and I have a glass of wine before me, and all that I can see is my emptiness.

Nevie

And she was with me and I with her. And we would remember we said. We both said. And I do, and I wonder if she did or does. And whenever I think back to her, it seems today has love for me to accept. A spirit of freedom, sharing a bed, and loving in that physical way. Loving as I had never known it before. Enough to remember with passion. Enough to recall with pleasure and excitement. And then she would turn away. To be apart, I think from what had just taken place. To detach herself from it all. And I remember a limp embrace of farewell. But mostly I do indeed remember her. And I often wonder where she is today, and I wonder where it was that she went. And I wonder about the place that I was with her, and what she thought of it, and perhaps today, now thinks of it. And memory is a dream that cannot reach into the present day with reality. But memory is of something that was once real. And memory suggests romance to me. And where it is love that is concerned then memory can be a beautiful and romantic thing. And we are all imperfect people in this imperfect world. Where there is no-one to praise and there is no-one to blame ultimately. We just get along and get on with it. In a world where there really aren't answers to the questions. And I'm not really sure that I can remember the original question. Perhaps life itself is the question.

Repetition

Repetition and the spirit weak. The same journey down the same street. And the eye is caught by a stranger, sitting next to me on a bus, when she could have been elsewhere. So where there was nowhere, there becomes somewhere. So a place to recognize, a place that wasn't before. A place to discover, some place to open the eyes to. And the mind is so full of memories, I wonder about the quality of memories, and their merit. I know that I am somewhat imprisoned by them. I guess that death will set me free. And the souls of the city, ravaged and torn, and I don't wish to be around them I have to say. And I retire to the cube, because there is music and wine flowing there. And the music of an oriental and peaceful nature and the wine is of release. And there are busses and shopping centers on the outskirts of the city, and I think of home and where this particular place might happen to be. and it is the evening before the night. I sometimes wonder when one ends and the other one begins. And in the day there was light in the sky. And heat in the air. Sometimes I wake in the morning dreaming of a new place to be. And sometimes I can't understand why there is no reason why, no purpose. And the other day as I was walking in the city, I felt warmth, enough to tell me that I was walking on the right road. And when tomorrow comes around, will there be changes that I will be able to perceive? Or will it be repetition yet again?