It's common to look at your own writing with contempt once in a while. This writing, this living, this daily actions do not come from unfathomable depths. They are as mediocre as the man who went halfway up the hill. Someone once described my life as nothing but a constant running away from silence. You would think switching course and running straight after it would do the trick. It does for some. Some are no longer interested with anything but their own anguish, it does not work for them. Running after silence is an offspring of The Run. A highbrow cousin of ambition. So what then? I do not know. Hope is as hollow as fear. Perhaps those two are the biceps and the triceps of the hand that is chocking the life out of the human mind. To quote Rumi, " God said to the hand of death, grab hold of worldly men. To the mind, return from where you came. To the soul, carry all the treasures that you can, fly away to the unseen and cry no more."
Its raining over here. There is a different quality to the air. Sometimes when I am quiet and I fall asleep the order is restored. It feels like a breath of this cold air. What is order ? Thinking these through is often suffocating. But i am a curious fellow. furthermore, what is my life about anyways? I am going to bear children one day, how will i nourish them? Fire needs oxygen. What can a suffocating lung like mine offer a candle. Entertainment perhaps. Sports, video games, movies and music. Wonderful delights. Some dark philosopher said one can only know what is enough when he knows what is more than enough. Entertainment seems to this poor chap more than enough and still cheap at the same time. Only life and death seem worth watching. You may not share this opinion, I do not even know if it is mine. I do not know shi% about fu%#. Why is it raining in the deserts? Where there is no sentient being to laugh about it. I recently learnt that the biggest desert in our world is antarctica. A desert is defined by the meagre precipitation. Picture this, a lone tree grows in a cold stone in winter, nowhere is there warmth to be found.
It feels like misbehaving. Like a pendulum bob at its highest point. All energy is potential energy. Should I walk to my nearest drug dealer? Should I eat someone? or something. Maybe I should just write and do some reflecting. A good mirror is like a good friend. Writing of course has some distortions but a silhouette does beat blindness. How do you spend your leisure? I, myself, like sleeping and dreaming. I tried playing music instruments but i could not answer some fundamental questions. What do I say with my guitar? Do I just keep it simple and sing of love, hope and the gods. It seemed to me pointless to praise and preach and the light if nobody could see it. Have I seen this light? Or just shadows cast by it. Like the fish that goes to the queen and asks "What is the sea?" The queen fish replies, "The sea is all around you; it is what you live in." The young fish, confused, says, "But I don't see it!" So the week flies on and another weekend brings with it this feeling of potential. Space from reason and progress.