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.

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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?