The Reason for the Dream

And when I awoke I changed my mind about who it was that I had been dreaming of. I guess to my mind, she had fitted my dream a bit more. Her hair was the proper colour and her eyes had been giving. I pondered on the idea of the reason for the dream, and I smiled to let myself know that I couldn't know. And somewhere in the wilderness of the mystery of dream there is subjection. It dares to focus on me, in its tantalising way with a certain imprisonment. And the life of the dream dies somehow in the awakening, it may not proceed into the living day. And in the death of the sleep lives the dream, and in the life of my living becomes the death of my dream. And following from the reason for the dream becomes, the reason for the life, and the answer is still the same. I wonder if nature dreams when it is still and at peace with itself, and if the reality of nature is different from its dream. There are no conclusions, and the mind must follow the spirit and the soul. The mind is just a place of delusion ultimately, that leads us on to knowing what we cannot know. I wonder if that is why the mind must dream. Perhaps it must escape from the reality of the futility of itself, to find itself in a credible place.

Love Without Touch

Today, I sensed that real love, where there is no touch involved, where words declaring love for another person are not to be said. A tacit kind of thing, but its suggestion is dwelling within, and only takes the right time in the right moment for one to gain this understanding. So, not the obvious love, but love itself in great purity.

Colours

Fantasy in varying degrees, planning its assault on certain reality. Fantasy in the place of magic, feeding emotions, strengthening the eyes of wonder. The dream lies asleep, it has tired and is old, it will soon become, no more. Memory doesn't tend to recall fantasy so much, it deals much more in the real, and often in the negatives, the disappointments, perhaps memory can look like it is in a morbid place. Its Sunday and the Horse Protestants are remembering the British war dead in their Irish home. Some wear Poppies and pray for the souls of their martyrs. And I think of unity and understanding and that is about as far as I can get. Neon visions appear, they scream out their expressions. They suggest, and they imply, and they fire. And then they are gone, but for in the memory, and this is where it all begins. In the mind the memory of colours translates to words and music and other art. Screaming colours engage again, they seem to choose who they wish to cling to, they will not evaporate, they will live and dwell.

Nighttime

Another beer on a Saturday night, after The Bhoys done well. And the firm foundation of yesterday's decisions has subsided to a quagmire. I avoid the mirror of my conscience, it can only show its displeasure with me. And the night moves on, bland in its darkness in the lack of imagination. But really in the living mind, it is just a day that has grown a little tired and is reclining. And the black of the night is just a variation of the colours of the day, and if you are to be afraid of the night, I wonder if you would have to be afraid of the day too? And tonight the vampires and the zombies are waiting in the wings. They seem to know the way that it is supposed to go, and all I can do is gaze unknowingly at their possibility. So the sky has gone to sleep, and suggests that I should ease down, though perhaps I would care to have an argument with this particular nighttime. Astral travel stares me in the face, wonders if I would care to climb aboard, perhaps it was a suggestion from the zombies. And I see the zombies in all that I have loved and are gone, and the beauty cannot be misplaced, it remains and is in place with love. And I think sometimes that to think about tomorrow is to think about a certain death. So I guess I can be scared into thinking exclusively of today. And nighttime is the mystery of the day. Darkly provocative and sexual, putting the emphasis on the self. It has blanked life out in its way, but of course, it is yet to succeed. So perhaps it has thrown the gauntlet down, it has suggested; 'Go on deal with me, show me if you can see through my darkness?

The Reason for the Existence of Tears?

Standing outside of the place where your lovers stray, gazing to the religious experience called love, you cast a side on glance, let it be known that your love wasn't to be for me, as I let you know that my love wasn't to be for you. Nonetheless there were songs about you, innocent songs of an innocent time. Songs I believe that were just of a basic connection, nothing more. And you touched me with your duplicity, and it took a while for me to understand. But the soul, doesn't believe in liars, and it awakens one to what is true, when the heart is ready to embrace this truth, when it is true indeed. And when the heart and truth are aligned then the spirit awakens to inform that the truth is a warming thing, is a precious thing, is a loving thing. And tears don't wish to cry for ever, and they will seek to find a reason not to, these tears will reach into the world of the self, for the reason that they should not exist. This may well be the reason for the existence of tears.

Life has Changed

Easing through the foam of the outskirts of my sanity. Waiting for the party to begin. A kind word beckons, says more than its kind word says. The party has begun. Words and a voice had filled my head prompting me to decision. I walked out in the cold day, with strength in my thought and eyes on the present time. And in the midst of walking in the cold day, I thought of sweet cold Canada, and life in Northern Ontario. And the party is at play and its mind tries to capture the drifting ideas that play in the head. And from Canada, to the evening sky in a motion, gently perusing a spirit singing in the voice of a song. Moving on and away, the feeling brightens until it warms. Magnetic life has pervaded an early darkness, a thought returns brought by a feeling. And now the inevitable is not the inevitable any longer. Life has changed somehow, giving this flirtatious wink in the middle of a business day. And for the recent past and for life itself and its subjects I try to let anger not get in the way, when once again, there was wrongness in the things that she embraced. I have a dream of life, when it is vibrant and true, when it throttles to get its result, when it insists on concordance, when it tyranises the stillness, of the peace, of the quietude. Life has come to play and looks through an open window, through the rain. And the fog begs for release and life relents when that same fog will attempt to turn to fire. And in the outskirts of my life, the psychical world, within its world, within my world, within the world. Angels break through, and search into eyes for understanding. They look for a way, and the way that there must be through negativity, in this moment, there is no yesterday and there is not today and there is no tomorrow. There is just the power of now.

Home

Cinnamon evening, from a morning of shallow discomfort, when the rain refused to call, to endorse a suspicious belief that was floating around my anxious head. Love can be a cowardly thing, in the way that it doesn't want to deal with reality. Somewhere in the vampire evening, in the reaches of the past, a friend comes to call. The wolf howls at her moon. And the past is never gone when it lives in the memory of today. It just requires just a little more understanding and a little more patience, to accept that it really is here in this evening of mine. I thought I heard an angel cry. And through the song there was strength, and through the song, there was wondering if the past could re-live itself in a dusty moment of now. Truth is fog, and is pursued in dream. and lies somewhere perhaps, between the dream and the reality. And then there was a blinding sun in February and I felt that I should screen my eyes from the illusion that it suggested. And colours fill the heart, seeking to be reconciled to the places where they belong. And in this wild confusion, the moment is prayerful and its peace attacks diversity and indifference. And home has come to call, and is looking for will. It will not accept passivity and it will not accept ease. It comes to provoke one into the search, into being where home is thought to be.

Pictures

Pictures of different areas of life, they confront and perhaps they ask, perhaps they question. I guess that they could intimidate, if one allowed them to. And what is a picture anyway, but a moment that has chosen to sleep. So away from pictures, life continues in its motion, and this motion that life has about it, it tempts and it provokes a person to get in touch with it, to deal with it, to be alongside of it. There is golden in the memory of sun. The sun seems to overwhelm the day, and its pictures. And then there are pictures that are inside the head, and often accompanied by words, perhaps foreign to them. I guess that they try to get in time, attempt to create understanding. And alongside those pictures that are in my head, are the people in the pictures, and the memory of them. And sometimes along with the words that wish to accompany the picture, comes some kind of music, perhaps, it is a song, or perhaps it is just a melody. And electric eyes, firing their way into another soul, when the other soul has nowhere to turn or to go. The only place to look sometimes is future memory, just to get out of this place as it happens to be, now. It could take a long time to escape, it could possibly take a lifetime. Fortune deals its cards. One by one they are picked up, and one by one each of us is identified. Isn't it strange, how the things of life, affect one different from the next? So I guess, to be in touch with reality, you have to be in touch with possibilities. And horses dance and lions lie down with tigers, and scenes of the city, are embarrassed into feeling alone. The beaming sun radiant in its style, just ask for acceptance and again the question reaches the mind.

Thoughts on a Winter's Day

Vibrant music playing through the wild evening, and through the cold in the January air. Some part of inside, creates a warmth, makes one, want to investigate, to be one with its source. And unremembered dreams, seem to want to still me in their aftermath. I got up this morning, thinking I should return to my bed and try to return to them. In winter, colour seems to retire, seems to be submissive to the climate. And different kinds of love provoke me, and I attempt to search them for understanding. There's a hunter and all he seems to be is circular. The beginning reaches the end until it reaches the beginning once again. Stuck inside of this moment of the day, my mind and its remembrances, deep guilt inside the reason why. Moral debt, and a youthful attraction, in a far away world of yesterday, remains clear. I never understood the reason for this particular course, I never wanted to understand perhaps. And understanding will still be in the department of unknowing anyway, outside of black and white reality, and even the word reality is questionable. I can understand the necessity for comedy and horror and the things of escape, when they probably couldn't understand me, in my complex simplicity. And ultimately the heart wants to only deal in love, and it dwells on the vagaries of it. And romance is a universe of a picture, when the world seeks to envelope and define, within mystery. And mystery has no answers, but colour, and its colours speak to the heart again, with suggestion and some kind of expectation perhaps.

Poetry

Empty so called poetry, rejoicing in its nothingness, turning from question. Fanciful expressions, sometimes, but not every single time,tolerable. Tough reality, gazing straight into the eyes, refusing a certain kind of innocence, just this once. And in this moment arises the thought of worth. And in this moment arises the idea of excellence. And in this moment, arises the idea of true expression. The true expression of understanding. So don't tell me that what you write in your unknowing mind is poetry. And don't expect me to judge the things that you do, kindly. If you want to make your poem, then you will first have to get in touch with your soul. There is no easy way, it can't be done otherwise. And God is the master of creation, soul would appear to be the intermediary, there is no place higher to be, than to be as a servant. And the focuses, are in their way touched and blessed by God. And the God of life is the God of art and this God is the one who allows. So vanity will lead you to delusion, and if you feel that this delusion is a comfort then you turn away from all of art and from all of God. I am a messenger and am given gifts to give. They aren't mine and they don't belong to me, and they aren't yours, and they don't belong to you either. From this gift of God, there must be return. It is inescapable, it is reality, it is truth. So if you would care to believe in the world of art, then you I believe, would care to believe in the world of love. Love is alive not just when there is music in an embrace, and when the touch is real, but when the feeling needs expression.

From Sparkling Wine to Sour Grapes

From sparkling wine to sour grapes lingering too long in my feeling, she escapes back to the world of her true reality. I move on, connecting to the light. Rainbow visions in Chinese evenings, gently aware of where the sun has gone to rest, and life begins to recline. There are sparks on the horizon and the waves cascade on the watching ocean. Extravagant colours in changing patterns, awing and provoking creation, having nowhere to rest and seeking toward infinity,new lighting is given to all of experience where understanding isn't prepared to settle on. A world explodes, it will not give its secrets. It will look you in the eye urging activity. And in the intensity,spirit is in the air, married to soul, and there are no such things as answers, only solutions to inactivity. The world is a ball of fire, ever changing in colours of insanity and expression. People pray to Gods they have never known, and they pray within to their soul in discomfort from not being able to face the truth of themselves, for fear that this particular vanity might be going a little too far. And in this wonderland magic can be the only thing obvious, to attain. And how could magic be 'an only thing?' and indeed a thing? Eyes collide with visions of dream and reality, the temporary and the old. History has only itself to blame for being certain. Truth knows better and deals not in delusion. Truth is quiet within itself and accepts itself inviting visitation.