The End

Drunken writers and so called poets, drinking deeply of their own emptiness. and a word of acceptance seems like the world of acceptance to them, they are empty and they are hungry and they lust for accompaniment, they are hungry and they live in a particular poverty. And this poverty somehow makes them feel wealth, for they can progress no further, this beginning actually is the the end.

The Daytime and the Nighttime

The nighttime questioning spirit, you seek God, you reckon he should be here at this time. The moon has escaped to its world of love and lunacy, and that there is understanding between God and the Pagan moon I have no doubt. People give comfort, or attempt to, one to the other, working at keeping demons at bay. Now is a world of now and memory, tomorrow walks the other way in its diversion, uncertainty. I wonder of the loneliness of the bitter and angry hearts, and what there is to comfort them, in their despair. And the angry heart at some point, must console itself with what reality actually was and in fact is right now. George Jackson in Soledad Prison declared that 'no-one can crawl inside your head' but I know that there are people who can. Duality is the key in the face of uncertainty, it wants to encapsulate, it wishes to keep spirit alive, it offers its love in its way, and in return it seeks understanding. And city streets are a world full of strangers, who sometimes are unable to converse with language. People are lost as friends are lost and friendship is lost, and again there is the mystical nighttime, which is lost mainly to all but itself. So there is comfort in the nighttime, and within its dark, and it displays this always and it has forever turned to the light of day. And the day, is the time for fire, and it breathes a deeper life than the nighttime, into its souls. We are souls of the daytime and the nighttime, and we are one, just like the nighttime and the daytime are one.

Life and Death

Thinking's crazy, the brighter it gets, the duller it gets, the mind must look for its answers to spirit and soul. Intellect doesn't know, although it knows how to delude, there are strings being pulled somewhere, and the shape of the mind spells constriction. I wonder if there is another name for God, when God is collective consciousness, that each of us makes his or her contribution to? There are answers, as many answers as one would allow oneself to find, nothing is definitive, life is mystery, and so, is its death. And we no more understand life, than we understand death, perhaps then, death teaches definition, and perhaps death has answers, and death has truth, and perhaps death is the answer to life, and perhaps then, death knows life and can understand its mystery.

Character

Flirting with blame, attached to a memory, and excuses sitting so right next to me. Cowardice can suggest, it can seek embrace, and it can swallow the true spirit. And character must always raise its head in assertion, it is the personal higher power, and it is the road to success on the road of a personal life. And I look around at mirrors of my condition, in the see-saw of changing feelings, in the variousness of different eyes and faces and experiences. Sameness, is a small place to dwell on, and can be the easy way out, when I don't feel like I want to get in touch with my truth. So the spirit grows with shows and decisions of character, and the easy way out, is no way out at all. It is a stagnant and a lazy place and ultimately it will explain to you that you are mistaken.

Love is the Change

From the dark abyss to the wishing well, we are shadows in our worlds of truth. Venturing onward to unforeseen places. Lovingkindness, is the most radical of things, and it has no questions of itself, it strides forward on its own, oblivious to opinions. And in its life, there is fire, and in its fire, there is the explosion of soul. And the soul is the essence, it is the director, it is the conductor, and what once was inhibited, gives way to the change of love, and love is the change. And love is the change.

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.