Your dreams are very well written. I know this, without knowing any of you. People turn anxieties, crises and longing, love, regret and guilt into beautiful rich stories in their dreams. What is it that allows us the creative freedom in our dreams that we don’t have in our waking lives? I don’t know, but I suspect part of it is that in our dreams we are not constricted by worry about how we will appear to others. It’s a private conversation with ourselves, and if we’re worried about it, this becomes part of the dream. I think if we were better able to approach our work this way, the results would be different.
It's cool how for my part, this sleight of hand,
the trick of making something confounding and great and potentially horrible, drawn up from air...
all this is no longer of any interest.
In fact, even seeing things in this light depresses me.
And so I often come home at night depressed by what we have done, what we are doing.
It's good, it means I've changed.
the trick of making something confounding and great and potentially horrible, drawn up from air...
all this is no longer of any interest.
In fact, even seeing things in this light depresses me.
And so I often come home at night depressed by what we have done, what we are doing.
It's good, it means I've changed.
I ate a lemon peel 'cause I had a low blood sugar. A exhausting deficiency of sugar. A melancholic absence of sugar. I, clinical case of acute abstinence from sugar.
I imagined to be the sea. There, my senses felt sharp waves and smooth sand. The sun filled the sky. The sun filled waves and sand. The excited skin is stuffing of laziness. Opulent, voracious, my insatiable belly full of sun. Blindness strident and careless of being blind. Sugary sound of waves, I used to like it. Sweet, tasty, candid. Me, myself, sea, sand, wind, sun. Alone.
Sweet taste of loneliness. Sweet feels disintegrate without pain. Sugar as dangerous as desire. That desire of imagining painful taste. I stay with myself. Myself lost, me alive, new me. Greedy, yes. I'm not ashamed at all.
Why should I be ashamed of being affected by a not sick disease?
Yet, again and again. I bathe and I'm wrong, I eat and sip, I deceit myself. I faint.
A little 'sugar please.
I imagined to be the sea. There, my senses felt sharp waves and smooth sand. The sun filled the sky. The sun filled waves and sand. The excited skin is stuffing of laziness. Opulent, voracious, my insatiable belly full of sun. Blindness strident and careless of being blind. Sugary sound of waves, I used to like it. Sweet, tasty, candid. Me, myself, sea, sand, wind, sun. Alone.
Sweet taste of loneliness. Sweet feels disintegrate without pain. Sugar as dangerous as desire. That desire of imagining painful taste. I stay with myself. Myself lost, me alive, new me. Greedy, yes. I'm not ashamed at all.
Why should I be ashamed of being affected by a not sick disease?
Yet, again and again. I bathe and I'm wrong, I eat and sip, I deceit myself. I faint.
A little 'sugar please.
It is an ancient pattern of time usage for me, and I’m trying to move deeper, hoping to be helpful. This pattern of time usage paints over an ancient wound, and paints it with bright colours. It’s a sleight of hand, a distraction, so to attempt to change the pattern let me expose the wound. I now step into this area blindly, I do not know what the wound is, I do know that it is old. I do know that it is a hole in my being. I do know it is tender. I do believe that it is unknowable, or at least unable to be articulable.
I do believe you have a wound too. I do believe it is both specific to you and common to everyone. I do believe it is the thing about you that must be hidden and protected, it is the thing that must be tap danced over five shows a day, it is the thing that won’t be interesting to other people if revealed. It is the thing that makes you weak and pathetic. It is the thing that truly, truly, truly makes loving you impossible. It is your secret, even from yourself. But it is the thing that wants to live.
He wanted to be close to God, he does training, he does indeed, as a sort form of punishment perhaps, a prize for some past mistakes. Trying to expel his grief, and went good, he won.
Achievement produced by frustration and anger and every award represented one more step towards his redemption. because he wants to be beside god.
but he became him, start to be follow by huge audience, who worshiped his characters.
Even on top, he ain't gonna cover his wounds, scars all over.
A god full of regrets, seeking forgiveness, God's forgiveness.
But humans only forgive because their short memory.
And so, bell rings.
The throne is filled now.
Achievement produced by frustration and anger and every award represented one more step towards his redemption. because he wants to be beside god.
but he became him, start to be follow by huge audience, who worshiped his characters.
Even on top, he ain't gonna cover his wounds, scars all over.
A god full of regrets, seeking forgiveness, God's forgiveness.
But humans only forgive because their short memory.
And so, bell rings.
The throne is filled now.
It’s weird to be a human. We get to think about things, we get to wonder. It seems like quite a privileged position in the universe. And I wouldn’t give it up for certainty because when you’re certain you stop being curious. And here’s the one thing I know about the thing you’re certain about; you’re wrong.
It’s always a mistake to settle on any explanation for anything, because whatever you settle on you will be wrong, even if you’re right. Everything is ephemeral; everything is in a constant state of flux. Thinking past any conclusion you’ve drawn will reward you with a more complex insight and a more compassionate world view. This is something I’m constantly trying to learn and re-learn.
Now I become aware of the weight of mountain overhead.
It hides the light, the day, the air. I am still trundling deeper and deeper into the weight,
into the solidity of it.
I cannot even orientate myself by the slightest pinprick of light.
I know now that between me and the world there lies this mountain of rock, or this impenetrable mass of smoky veil which is heavy and hot like the rock itself.
I am trapped in an intolerable hiding place.
It hides the light, the day, the air. I am still trundling deeper and deeper into the weight,
into the solidity of it.
I cannot even orientate myself by the slightest pinprick of light.
I know now that between me and the world there lies this mountain of rock, or this impenetrable mass of smoky veil which is heavy and hot like the rock itself.
I am trapped in an intolerable hiding place.
I am increasingly convinced that the need to be right has nothing whatsoever to do with the love of truth, but to face the implications of this means accepting a painful inner emptiness; I am not now what I sense somehow I am meant to be. I do not know what I feel from the bottom of my heart, I need to know. The beginning of wisdom is not to flee from this condition or distract yourself from it. It is essential not to fill it up with answers that have not been earned. It is important to learn how to wait with that emptiness. It is the desire to fill up that emptiness which leads to political or religious fanaticism.
I don’t understand many things, I don’t know as much as I’d like about anything, but I’m a human being and I won’t be in competition for the right to be treated decently. I won’t play that game. Nor should anybody have to. In turn, I will try not to use whatever access I have to the public’s fear to sell things, including myself.
The world is very scary now. It always has been. But something grotesque and specific to our time is blanketing us. We need to see that it is not reality; it is a choice we are making or allowing other people to make for us.
I’ve begun my voyage in a paper boat without a bottom; I will fly to the moon in it. I have been folded along a crease in time, a weakness in the sheet of life. Now, you’ve settled on the opposite side of the paper to me; I can see your traces in the ink that soaks through the fibre, the pulped vegetation. When we become waterlogged, and the cage disintegrates, we will intermingle. When this paper aeroplane leaves the cliff edge, and carves parallel vapour trails in the dark, we will come together.
She seems so tired.
Yes she does, she can't stand the evening and she lyed down on the grass almost like prying, doing her voodoo, her inner ritual, begging her godness.
"please stay above me, don't go, i will let you hug me with your rays." she siad still wet.
She felt old in that moment, umidity made her moaning like a baby, thats what she does. But the grass is still umid from last night, still full of dew drops.
She will never dry.
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best night and day to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting.
