Thursday, August 21, 2014

Birth and Echo

The bruise shows you how to walk the Earth in glory, rather than sorrow...for it is eventually transcended, the alchemy of spirit grows into it, it fades it into the night...with the stars as company. Your Self will be there, on its own, in its entirety, in fast as you speak, words will fall into the ground as lies...little lies told by a creature too small to feel with its own heart...but too big to be wrong. Like walking on a fragile world, you toughen it with steel and smoke...

The burnt eyes of truth wake up one more show you, to breathe silently on your spine. There, it awaits....solemnly. The dust of its blow is all you see, where is the gift? Hidden in the park, underneath the the tears of a child, hidden. Where does it reside? in the heart of a mother, a loss, a mending? Where does it go and stay? It sways with the burns you in arid the desert of your life, but find it still! Smile through the chill of your tears. Find its bright petals and silent stares, and loaded smiles, and hungry hearts...find it hidden in the echoes of a song, in the mountain air, underneath the deepest caves, the blue waters, the willows...find it hidden in a tragedy, find it, and dig it out! In your own voice. For it is all that is...What is right and wrong is nothing but a play, literally and figuratively, a play as in theater, and as a game...and as a sort of dance. If you play back, you will finally understand, go with it, find the momentum, the will laugh with it,and flow like the ocean. The edges will one day melt, and you will find the birth place of your Soul, new and eager to live.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Life lessons

Life is beautiful and fragile..and sometimes you have to stand naked in front of the cruelty, the storm, to taste the danger, on an edge made of the serene silence of tomorrow...standing on top of the cliff of your potential. Almost tasting the wild wind running through your lungs, the ravage of keeps going. There is no real wisdom but the wisdom of now, which applies now, to nothing else, to no one else.
Only you are truth to yourself...Sometimes the edges that hurt are the beautiful desperation of feeling your own existence. The layers break and fade, and nothing else remains but you. If it tears at you, let it...for it is tearing at the covers, the walls, the delusions. If it breaks you, just let it...because it won't. If you feel broken, it is only your spirit feeling a surface illusion. The night covers you again and the daylight claims your face the mirror, in their eyes. No matter what and where, the child plays in the sand of time...bruising their knees, laughing at the clouds. There is no change...the lessons trick us and change on us, the complexity grows. The seasons still smile, but they won't if you don't. The bleeding will lead to knowing you are life itself, and have not lost a thing.

The magic fades and returns, and as much as you are torn down, to the bone, you will realize that you will rebuild yourself from nothing, just as you did before, but you forgot that you made time and cooked up thoughts and sprung matter. And your lovers came from you, and the Sun invited you to see yourself forgot that you are timeless, that you stand still above it all.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Talking is futile

The frail web you spin out of hopes, the long lost dreams you saved in a box under your bed, just in case...are nothing but a lonesome memory that survived your defeating obstacles, your lukewarm realism, every one of your barriers. It was a fervent dream that survived..and yet it crashes with the strings that play the sounds of common hurts...the down that follows the up. Masked as inconsistency, you braid the truth into the untruthfulness of 'maybe'. It is time to sharpen the senses, to bridge the gap of loss with what may be, the weight of a single tear held back. It is not the Universe speaking, but your own voice cast wide and invisible before you were a human. It now covers the distance of the space around you, muted into the trees and wind. In learning how to hear yourself, the demons wake too...

In fashioning your life, the threads will tangle. Your love will break under the pressure, the blanket of your home will tear. In haunting notes you will get lost, whether in melodies or the space between the notes. In gazes you will wonder where you are in between blinks, or how to live in someone else's head...or heart. It's places that bleed their sorrows into the atmosphere, or beg for one more look before taking one more step. It's getting lost in whatever game you allow, but is the lesson mounted on your wall or locked in a trunk? How do you appear to yourself before you offer yourself to others? Is it time to mend the words you speak to yourself? Why are some moments so dense and burdening, while some gentle as a feather?
The weather smells like each season, your life speaks in scents. The notes match what is inside, the strokes of the painting are your emotions frozen into colors. Wherever the path leads, there are ways and follow one over the other is a long debate in the catalog of choices. It is the endless story that keeps being retold, in every way possible, in whatever manner it can reveal itself, from the shards of the crystalline experience.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014


Walking ghosts crash with the waves,
of simple missing consciousness
The melting of the Universe has stretched your body to fit over your soul,
and it takes it back in when a star dies
Your misery becomes a memory...
and tears the lake of reflection.

Perishable feelings
float above the being,
Bring the haunting, the confusion
Amidst all mingled self-perpetuating illusions
Hush your thoughts, listen to the quiet

In absence the feeling lingers,
a broken piece of the past,
the future beckons you nearer
violently showing its face in bright
serene screams, in fragments and oceanic flows,
in rhythms and chaos,
Wings and fallen feathers,
in broken photographs,
the shards of light stumble
through eyes flashing loud visions
The mending of loss,
the creeping of thoughts,
In a world of endless spinning.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014


Sublime filters
Cover the night
in lingering promises
Like a slow, tedious tune

The old shadows burn
in the new daylight
A refractive state, nothing more
but tranquil solitude

Yet filled with monsters,
Under the sight of a tired
They hide in the long embrace
which didn't happen

In corners of a fantasy,
They breathe as thoughts,
as sharp edges
Disguised as pain

What do you hold underneath?
How many shades of "what if"?
The trembles of your heart muted
Collapse under whispers that wanted to be yours

What are you hiding so well?
And what place did you devise to put it in?
You've made space for your repression
But stole from your dream

You fly through days and nights
either floating or drudging
In speechless chaos
or senseless order...

Throughout aeons you sleep,
marked by words,
or weighed by broken wings
You chose a path...

The path of unbridled memories
Escaping your own grasp
Running your thoughts, desires...
In  rhythms so alluring.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Where truth resides

The more I look at how the world operates, the more I realize, you cannot get what you do not already have and can give, you can be in the wrong position and truly miss out on something great, not because of lack of skill but some small misstep; that whenever you see loss, there is gain somewhere else, that the dynamics that make the world go round are eternally even, even though they may not seem to be. In the distribution of chaos, time does its job at concealing the ultimate balance that your very existence relies upon. It is the dance of the stars, the music that flows out of the most severe pain, the joy that explodes out of a burning heart. These are the experiences humanity encounters, struggles with, yearns for...In the endless cycle of mixed positions and different perspectives, the over analyzing of two thoughts is what brings division, fear...

And what time won't disclose is its close connection to the truth...and where to look, nowhere but here, but now. It is in the inner space that truth resides. Not in the outer, not in the madness of the cosmos, the reckless illusions that breed in the minds of men. It is in the suspension of beauty, the eternal liberation of the spirit, the utterance of pure words, of pure intentions, it resides in the smile of a child with light in their eyes. It lives in the empty street corners where vagabonds had slept at night. Truth shines from a place of glory, of irrefutable wisdom, in a perfect mix of sadness and joy. It creeps up on us when we brush our teeth, a knowing that is so inner we are simply the echo of its reverberation. Our bodies can feel it from afar, only being its result, its projection. The projection knows itself apart from the projector, for it came after it, wondering what it is. It is the projected that feels shunned, but without the projector containing all its parts, being made of the projected light, it would not exist. It is a loop, a pesty cycle of chicken and egg questioning. The birth of light cannot be a birth at all, for it had always been, contained in the darkness and in everything- creating the projector, the projected being only an actualization of its creative force. It is the created that forgets how it was made, and that it made itself virtually...a self-curious Universe? How narcissistic you say... A simple curiosity, is that the explanation of all that is? All the cruelty of the world, the complicated elements, for what? But does existence need a reason? Is that something to always look for? A reason...why do we need reasons for everything? That is one great question, and using why to question reason itself, that is pretty gutsy I might say.

So where does our reason for reason start? The brain continuously questions. Our search for understanding began at the need for knowledge, a decision to take the spiral downward and back to the stars, to climb a terrible ladder of pain and suffering to gain the fruit of eventual knowledge, the reward of climbing up to becoming a creator again, taking on the lessons that lead to greatness, and of course, it is the hard way...This is usually vilified in some scriptures, for the very reason that the thirst of knowledge is vilified, for control...for repressing knowledge and the curiosity for it.  The punishment is always self-inflicted, and seeking reasons is what truly deprecates the thing itself. The need is there, the reason is built deep into it. It is how it is, let it be...allow it, accept it. Move to work with its inner built reasoning,  for the Sun has not a reason to shine but its own essence is shining. Once something is, it has a reason already. And so it must do what it is meant to do from the very beginning, it has no choice, for it is what it is.

Friday, March 14, 2014

The Burden

The birth of something new is the birth of a new perspective, an entirely different dimension of existence. It grabs at us from the other side, pulling us nearer...whispering in the dark, to get closer to it, while it still instills fear in us. To tremble at our dreams is the prelude to the greatness of risk, the burning flame of being alive at our most genuine self. Through the articles and the stories we live, the pages turn and chapters turn into the bigger book. When the other world beckons, we can peek at it on the other side and glimpse at its matter how much we cling to the now or the past, the other side is calling, wild as the wolf...rogue and free, boundless and limitless... It sharpens its tongue to call us, to make us hear, and yet we turn away, we subsist on empty promises from our own selves, on pieces of the hope to be able to survive on the scraps of broken memories, of the useless trinkets we still hold in our hands...Like a lost child without a home, it seems the wave is too big for us to embark on, to learn to swim by jumping into the stormy sea...
The melting of the old bleeds into the new, like a mold...into a new creation, another thing. It fuels the reckless thoughts, the impulsive drives, the common desires of every man...and yet, it is sacred. It lifts us from the dusty confines of a burdened life, a monotony of sorts. In all it does, it hinges itself onto a beautiful story, somewhere, somehow, inside a breathes and lives, like a flower awaiting to blossom, lifting the snow.

It waits for me on the other knows I am here, piercing through the veil and yet holding my hand back into the dark. The burden of loss is the burden of butterflies, of caterpillars dying the death of transformation, of crushing through an old body to embrace another. Through its bravery, the world celebrates and praises its courage by giving it wings.

A weary soul looks through a mirror at itself...only to see another old, lost part still kept in a tidy box...afraid to shed its cocoon. It walks around with it as a weight, a sort of armor for the frail interior.The soul wears it, as it is cut little by little by the sharp edges. Once an armor now only a burden...and so, which is the burden? Who holds it tightly?