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?

Unknowing Anger

A sad kind of anger from a one, unknowing. Close to one of mine. Another part of me. I know then, that I should stand lateral. Have nothing to say, nothing to convey. The victory is in the peace within the silence. I can now choose whether to be confounded or whether to nod to the other in a compassionate way, having sympathy.

The Master of our Dreams

Memories seem to be intertwined with dreams. Dreams seem to live in themselves. They pay not a lot of heed, to the dreamer of them. So is the dreamer of the dream, a slave to the dream? Or suspiciously, is he in command of his dream? Does sleep make him susceptible to outside influences? So when there is sleep, are we at risk? And is sleep an example of a daily death? And if sleep is death then does it mean that death itself can conquer us and control us, acting upon our memories. And is death the greatest victory for the master of our dreams?

A Spade

A spade is most certainly a spade, although there could be something up its sleeve. Don't have an Ostrich type heart. Put it on display, nurture it, and project. Prepare to meet all of your desires. Both truth and fiction are part of the whole. Nothing should be remarkable. Everything should be accepted. Nothing is strange. Everything has a place in reality. Be with and stay with yourself. The blame cannot be all yours. The praise cannot be all yours either. And the blame cannot obviously be all theirs as the praise shouldn't be awarded to them exclusively.

Immigration to Ireland 2018

When there are reports of six and eight people sharing one small room, then immigration is out of control. Regulation is required and now, before there are human tragedies. When there is not the infrastructure in place in a small country like Ireland, when there are so many homeless, and there is so much pressure put on the health system, then regulation of immigration is required.

The Enlightening Spirit of a Certain Sun

The perfect kiss of love and physique. As popular as a cliche. Dreams of high release. Lost in the reason for now. The man with no name is dead. Darkly, Soulfully, Desirous. Mysteriously Dark and Soulfully Desirous. Drunken days of sobriety. New notes for a different page. The enlightening spirit of a certain sun. And the summer has come to its close and there are suggestions of another direction. Spirit be calm and be the one that guides. And the essence of spirit is now in the window. Its the self versus the weather, I suppose. I will choose the former. Singing my prayers, I look on high for the answer to my prayed song. And obviously, my song is to my God. And my God is standing in the shadows of perhaps, reality. And on this particular plane, I don't believe that anything changes anything else. And perhaps this God has no connection to a certain reality, and neither would I think, has a certain spirituality. So perhaps, we honour a certain aspect of ourselves over another. Perhaps it could be the mundane and the spiritual. And perhaps the truth of a person is in the heart of the individual. Perhaps there is a choice, a personal choice that others aren't aware of. And perhaps, we each of us are not aware of enough, to call it the truth of ourselves.

More

I do believe that there is more. The loud noises appear from the negative, the blind. Beauty tends to hide behind its door. Is it embarrassed by itself, I wonder? So, does goodness fear unpopularity? And there are trends that most of us would appear to be a part of. Love and kindness, are seen as being weakly things in the eyes of the foolish strong. And the strong and mighty may well be weak in their supposed strength. When the truth is not given, all we can do is dream, with thoughts and ideas that search towards understanding. Life is crazy, there is no satisfaction of gaining the result. It just isn't there, and then there is the apparent comfort of religion, and religion is mainly created, not by God, but by men. And then we get sidetracked, arguing one religion against another, I think when we do this, we are just putting one idea against another and vainly hoping that there may be some kind of understanding at the end of the tunnel. And with spirit, it is suggested to me, that that there is more. And Spirit is quite a word in itself. And I know that I oftentimes tamper with spirit, and I know that I am weak, and in life, am a fool. I know that I have no understanding, I know that there is no possibility of being able to do this. So each day, I wake up to a new one, and it always ends up like the one before. Does life think I am a fool? And is life a friend, and should I love it? And should I place my trust in it>?

Forkan Construction

Saw a van on the Stillorgan duel carriageway declaring 'Forkan Construction.' I thought that it sounded like the exclamation of a guy who had just had it with building sites.