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.

French Cafe Evening

There you were, clinging to the remains of an French cafe evening. T-shirt and jeans, and eyes searching the distance. And outside the traffic is abuzz with its action. The clock, stops to dream, its hands empty now. We are in a museum of stillness, but still that sense of ages, persists. We are in the church of time, and time has become mislaid. I can only look at you again within all of the stillness, lest I may feel the fear of this moment, so you are exalted by me now, you have gained some greater position, as yet unbeknownst to you. We travel outside, the city streets are cold and hungry in the nighttime, they become lost within the darkness, and there is fear in the skies, and their only comfort is their stars. And shape shifting is happening, right before our eyes, that is, if only our eyes could look from outside of us. We can see only each other and this particular night, and perhaps our motion. The question to be asked is; 'Now where do we go?'

God

And in this particular ether, there are dreams of dreams, and places of sun that dwell in hearts of dream. Focus is confused and sometimes, just sometimes, things appear to become clear. And where is the place of this apparent clarity I sometimes wonder? Perhaps it is in the sky somewhere, in a place where angels reside, and perhaps it is on a cloudy day in a place where the lion tamer's breath seeks out the psychic mind of the fortuneteller. She knows things that are not common to know, and I am envious of her. I would like to touch the root of her smile, I would like to know where all of her insight emanates from. And I think of eyes, and I think of nature, and I think of the one who really holds the cards, and has loaned them to her, to discover what she may make of them. So truth is distant and people, or some people looking for it, seem to think that it should come easily to them, when they have the feeling of purity within themselves, and perhaps that feeling of purity within themselves is no more than a feeling of purity within themselves. The sky cracks thunder, and it rains on the other side of the world, and there are prayers to Gods, as yet undefined, perhaps God has looked at you and your prayers and has decided that your prayer and you belong among you and yours, and that you and yours, are the God that you seek so fervently.

Conformity

The idea of achieving the impossible is a thrilling thing. The barriers of imposed, so called 'reality' come crashing down, they are helpless and they really don't know which way to turn. And I am standing here, looking at this apparent impossibility, and I laugh into its face, yet my laugh is not one of mockery, but a laugh nonetheless. My laughter just wants to quietly explain to the impossible, that it isn't impossible, that it isn't out of reach, that it is attainable, a dream has explained this to me, and dreams are no fool. Objects of nature, like trees, teach the spirit well, and the spirit is imbued with a certain kind of love. That kind of love that is willing to give its spirit to the overwhelming of crazy so called, impossibility. And in the mirror of the memory of my mind, I saw a young man cry, in his constriction. His strength was taken from him, and he thought that the enemy was his judgement, when the enemy was his conformity.

The Journey of the Self

Journeying onward, stars descend to the eyes. and the moon shines in approval. What is known as 'sense' hides in its corner. Seeking for comfort from a completely different place. And this place today, in this moment, accepts itself in its unreality, in its gift of romance. The clock has lost its tick, and time has disappeared into its tediousness. A new day has begun and its rules have been mislaid. There is no black and white feeling within the changes of the heart. Life approves in its sense of justice, in its allowing you to be free. Memory has died, and the world seeks to become at one with itself. Thought has been betrayed, it lies in a lonely forsaken place, and it is lost in this place, it doesn't quite know where it should turn to. Now is the special time, and the feeling and ambition within this now. And this now is impregnated with desire, and this desire will search into the personal eyes for direction. This is the moment that has been dreamt of and it will live. On the street come the voices of the playing children and they seem to unite in unison to the tone of this time. Darkness has been overcome by light, and all that there is, is possibility, of the creation of wild imagining, manifested. Life is new. Life has suddenly changed, the self is in control. The self is suddenly in charge.

Heart and Mind

The heart looks within when it allows mind. Heart and mind fight for victory. So now a quandary is created, which one is to be followed? which is the one to trust? And each one is not entirely naked in itself, is not isolated, is not alone in itself. Or could there be, the lonely heart and the lonely mind? Perhaps this could be the work. They see-saw and they gain and lose control over one another. Can one respect the other? Is the other one necessary? There is no feeling in the mind, and there is no thought in the heart. They are sceptical of one another. One cannot gain the other's trust. They reside in worlds apart within a person. Yet the mind can believe in love, and the heart can understand the reasons and the motives of thought. Feeling needs to be comforted sometimes, before it can fully accept its freedom. And the heart can run free and the mind can run free. And you snuck up on me, all so suddenly with your change of heart, and all so suddenly I was so grateful that you had. The heart can have its secrets too. It can hold the greatest dreams. It can lead the way for mind to follow. It can lead the way to soul.

Silence

withdrawing that step into the darkness, fools they make their voices heard, when all that there is to be said is nothing. And fools seem to be in control, to themselves, they are not in touch with real thought. But still they sound,. And the sound is the foolish sound, the unnecessary sound, it happens upon a time that doesn't lack for it. And there are eyes, quiet eyes, and they journey within themselves, with no ambition to conquer others. For them life is within. They are the eyes of truth, they do not seek reward, they don't ask questions of the ones outside of themselves. They live within themselves, they do not venture, yet they are too searchers and they own power, and they are on a journey. I wonder now, if noise is a thing of fools, and I wonder now, if silence is the thing of the wise.

The Art of Knowing

I know there should be no motivation, no lust for acceptance. Art has to be pure, I know that there should be no reason why. It is just a happening thing, it shouldn't seek reward. Art itself is the reward, and there are different facets of the reward. To understand you need to be in humility, and then again, there is no cause for trying to understand. There is nothing to even attempt to understand, and any way, that kind of thing belongs to dumb intellect. This is the place of delusion, and if you are not aware, it will attempt to suck you in to its deception, to its being removed from truth, to its bullshit, to its lie. Mind so enjoys having an opinion of itself, sometimes it is afraid to just stand still and relax an just be. There is a kind of knowing, that is far removed from intellect, not that intellect can ever really know. Feeling knows, although it will not speak a word. Love knows and it deals in feeling too. This is higher knowledge, and I believe to even suggest knowledge in relation to them is a great insult. So then, there is no real knowledge except for the feelings in the heart. So I guess, to be in touch with the purity of the heart is to know as much as you can know for yourself.

Forsaken angels, and their angelic kind of love, which isn't really any kind of love. And right now in this moment is such a good place to be. There is violence in the love, and all that it asks for is more. It doesn't accept some easy and therefore some kind of phoney kind of love. And we stand here in all of this weakness, nothing speaks of truth, it wanders and it sways, and it deceives, after it has tantalised, it is not to be trusted, it is a liar. And then, love with its particular violence stands apart, and it turns from judgement and it is real. Love has its own aggression and its own violence, it does not stand in a passive place, Its eyes are searching for a place that is further on. Right here, in this moment, nothing seems to live, there is a waiting for the day to change or a waiting for tomorrow. And angels, are drifting, and all they ever seem to do is wing. I know an angel, and she is love

The Question Within the Silence

That sweet taste, both mellow and poignant, where the impossibility that you had imagined, glares back at you and questions the soundness of your mind. You stand helpless in a corner, your movement is all within the changes of your mind. You turn into yourself, looking for inward guilt. And inside of you, recognises the challenge just as you have suggested it, and in the silence dwell your feelings. They bob back and forth, on the horizon of decision. Beauty would appear to be intact, and colours your silence, and this perceived beauty has nothing to say for itself, but to speak to you. And you discover that you have to open your ears, to give yourself the chance of understanding, and the challenge is to understand the question within the silence, and to answer with both heart and mind.