Flashback

Had this flashback today. I am with my girlfriend, and we have to visit her parents to tell them the news. And I guess, that I was sober at the time, and I look at her father in the face sort of, and I proclaim, after all the waffle had subsided, 'and she's pregnant' Shit! I'm still mortified yet.

The Depths of the Darkness in the Night

Strange, like trying to fathom the depths of the darkness in the night. Elusive, like a forgotten dream, and imperceptible, like the quality of the silence. And hope, stays in place, when you even think of attempting to understand what it is in a distant and a foreign place. And the effort can be warming, it can feel a hand on its shoulder of comfort, comforting its unknowing. And distance is vague and it appeals to imagination, and it looks for the imagination to picture it, to grasp its time and its place. To understand, that distance is just another picture show. And in any distance, it is strange, like trying to fathom the depths of the darkness in the night.

The Picture

Step into picture, there is comfort there, in possibility, when you have left the periphery behind. And your truth will be sensed and it will guide you and be accepted. On the periphery you observe, in the picture you are the actor, the player. What once was a mystery can turn to magic, It can hold you in its fond embrace, it can still, and it can thrill you, time has lost it reason, and the world is dancing to another beat.

Book on the Shelf

There's a book on the shelf and it gazes at me endlessly, and I am in the middle of breakfast and I avert my gaze, and the morning gives wealth to my breakfast. and without the morning, my breakfast would be in some kind of trouble. My book, approaches me always, and always it confronts me and asks questions of me. It seems to want to tell me, that it is a part of my heart and soul. and I don't know any different, and I try to squeeze myself away from it. And I stand alone in an evening, there are colours of orange and of purple and they would appear to be the colours of dream. And I can't pretend to hear the songs of angels, like some writers of hymns do, and I dream perhaps, of the next dream, and if I will be able to remember it, and therefore, make use of it somehow. I have lost everything that it was possible to lose, and I work within to overcome the defeat. It appears that I was the greatest demon that I had never taken the opportunity to confront. And the sky is overcast, and lacks expression, it hides behind this state of itself. It is a shy thing. and it seeks for love. And who will be the lover of the skies? Whenever I look to the skies, all I can see are clouds and sometimes sun and sometimes moon. So how much is the sky? Is it enough to cause a dream? Should you take it with you somewhere that you believe somehow, that it doesn't want you to go? And then it all comes back down to the book on the shelf, and how you want to consider it.

Today Becomes Yesterday

You dwell in a place albeit temporarily, but you are oblivious to any allotted time span befitting the present place. You project, and you seep yourself into this moment and place in time, there may be affection, and there may be longing. And in the night you may dream of the happenings of the day, and the days before, you may even bring this present situation that you stand in, into your dream. And you perhaps, may be unknowing, unaware of how this place receives you, in your drive to be right there, because you believe somehow, inside, that this is the only place for you to be right now, and then your comfortable feeling is shattered, signals inform you that this is not the place where you belong,that this is a temporary place, and a place that must be left behind in yesterday. And it may take a while to fully relieve yourself from the attachment that you had found there, And in time, it could be a day and it could be year, you understand that this place was not your home, and that you have some other place to go.

Success and Failure

Just one step away from failure, ah but you sidestep into the wonderland of success, with an eye on the temperature of the moment. Its odd how successfulness loves to question itself, like there is something lacking in its confidence. I guess when a thing isn't constant, it may create uncertainty. The wise tend to question themselves when the fools tend to forgive themselves in their unthinking, albeit tacitly, and without awareness. There is sensitivity and self consciousness within the wise and they don't seem to scream about their successes too much. In the melting pot though, everything has the same merit. You arrive at a point, and what does it matter how you happened to reach that point? So the wise and the foolish are closer to each other than one might think. We are all the same and none of us know, we just attempt, and some of us appear to win, certainly in the eyes of certain others, and some of us appear to lose, again in the eyes of others. And our own eyes, are suspicious to us, for they are selfish eyes, and they seek always for understanding from others. There is no contentment in isolation, there is always the quest for confirmation, acceptance. Perhaps then success and failure are more or less the same.

The New Order

They're throwing the lions to the Christians, the circus is on fire, and the government is all in jail. The world is having second thoughts, and science is questioning its sanity. Tomorrow is the prospect of unpredictability, some are frightened into the comfort of their easy answers, and some are on fire with their imaginations. And just around the corner from tomorrow are wild dreams of crazy truth. Freedom is in the air, and the air has the whiff of options and opportunities. Doors open wide to a new reality, what appeared to be lost, now appears to have been mislaid, uninformed, confused, overwhelmed. And the Christians sure are battling the lions, like the fight is from past lifetimes. Buddha sits still and smiles a fat smile, remembering how he left his loved ones and went on the road. I guess that at last his conscience is starting to bother him. The sun rains on a moonlit day, the earth escapes into the wilderness, all the comfort left, is in the fire of love, it is unchangable. It remains true, it dwells in hearts of love, and it explodes into beauty.

Silence and Sound

Interrupting me when I don't want to talk, there is more to peace than silence, when I have nothing to say. Some people seem to be afraid of the absence of sound. And then there is that screaming silence, a quiet aggression, A beautiful stillness, pervades sometimes, nonetheless, it reaches into the heart of you and it comforts and it shelters it walks you in its own direction and you have no choice but to follow.

Song

A meandering wind, takes me to places I never been. I wonder if poverty creates greed, and I have never been to poverty, but somehow, I am being shown the way to go there. The night is still, except for me, I am not still in the night. I am restless, and I wonder if my restlessness is noticed by the night. Dreams escape from the ether, they now gain life in a real place, they are mattering. And so far away from me, in a different place, glory exists, it does not take itself easily, it will not subside. Glory has its pride, and is attentive and stands lateral to my movement. The song appears to have died, there was disparity between the lyric and the air. And music is alive and it thrills.

Different Places

Similar games in different places, the eyes of minds and hearts, go searching through the barriers. I try to make some kind of sense out of my self, thoughts escape and flee sometimes within emotion. In this duality, there is some kind of oneness, although within it all, there is doubt. Truth stands behind its curtain, waiting for its cue. There is an area of mystery, and in this place, knowledge is lost somehow, for now, at least. The answers of decision are veiled, alive is a world between truth and corruption, and suspicion is always on hand, it would appear to be the only thing around that has any kind of understanding. Hearts fall and rise again, constancy is changing its course always, and elusive is its soul, it whirls in its own confusion, sometimes here and sometimes there, and sometimes it runs away to rest. And the focus is the future, undetermined although at times, imagined. Crazy is the heart when it doesn't know the way to travel, when it is unsure, when it is, ill at ease. And in different places, time suspects. The moon dances in the night, to the tune of romance. Otherwise, the sky is asleep and has nothing to declare. Even fortune tellers stand amazed and ask 'did this really happen to you?' to the reply of a semi-smile, of memories past. The world looks on, indifferent apparently, without opinion. Perhaps the world holds the answer, and its padlock just has to be unlocked.

Cormac

What I write is for you my darlng boy. Since you left, I have decided to dedicate my words to you. I have tried to be at one with you, and I will yet try. Where you are today, is the place, or is one of the places that i ponder upon. I try to exclude the darkness, and I dream that a life once lived, is its own expression. And you dwell within me and will continue to do so. You were of me, and you are of me, and you will always have been of me. There is no separation, death will not keep us apart. As long as I dwell in this land of life, you will dwell right here with me, and in this way I will keep you alive until my breath is no more. And I just had this sense that you were different from how you were, from how you lived. I can yet feel it. And perhaps where you are today will understand you, and will be close to you. When I lost you, I lost a part of myself, but my memory tells me that we are together, and neither of us can be alone.