Days. The pallid days that seem to come motionless.
Mantels now devoid of color, their blankness complete.
The skydomes swirling in amethyst are lost,
not in the night, but in the distance.
Gone is the unifying stillness of the moment,
days, the pallid days that seem to come motionless.
Endure this time,
patience, our most distinguished friend.
This pallor is nothing but a prelude,
and the silence before the psalm.
It will come, loud and smitten with attraction,
as a single instrument breaking the silence in echoes.
A foolish reminder.
Melodic and intimate in its caress.
Its power growing tender with each passing tide,
returning devotion to those seeking eyes...
Patience, for this pallor is nothing but a prelude.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
There was a quiet crimson glow radiating from her dark eyes.
Yet, it was not the red crimson of fire. In fact, it was a crimson that had no color. It was more of a crimson feeling.
And the depth of these eyes defied beauty, went above it, beyond it. This crimson glow was more like... understanding.
Not the understanding of condescension ... It was the sharing of innumerable days of solitude and dignity, all the rivers and the all the lights in the world seen through two sets of different eyes and souls.
Crimson it glowed and opaqued, and crimson it burned and soothed... Crimson were the warm embers of their insides, and crimson was the roof of her house when the sunset spilled out.
Then came silence. Of course... A crimson one.
She looked through and past him with her dark eyes... And suddenly he realized that everything in the world was perception, and what was laid before him was as ephemeral as perfume.... Withering away in tales of suns and skies... Crimson in color amidst the vanishing birds of feeling.
Yet, it was not the red crimson of fire. In fact, it was a crimson that had no color. It was more of a crimson feeling.
And the depth of these eyes defied beauty, went above it, beyond it. This crimson glow was more like... understanding.
Not the understanding of condescension ... It was the sharing of innumerable days of solitude and dignity, all the rivers and the all the lights in the world seen through two sets of different eyes and souls.
Crimson it glowed and opaqued, and crimson it burned and soothed... Crimson were the warm embers of their insides, and crimson was the roof of her house when the sunset spilled out.
Then came silence. Of course... A crimson one.
She looked through and past him with her dark eyes... And suddenly he realized that everything in the world was perception, and what was laid before him was as ephemeral as perfume.... Withering away in tales of suns and skies... Crimson in color amidst the vanishing birds of feeling.
Strangely enough, there's more to this evening than just the quaintness of its breeze, the comforts of its temperament, the simple truths of its twilight.
There's a certainty, a finality that feels almost sorrowful. All of a sudden it becomes clear. Some things are never meant to return. No matter how tightly you hold them in your grasp or how strongly you bend your memories upon them, they will dissipate in a cloud of rolling sand.
Like the concrete under our feet. Feel how its warmth pleads for friendship? How it timidly asks us to dance? Yet its hunger will only last as long as the afternoon holds out. Once night arrives, it will grow cold, unfeeling, hard and resolute. Our bare feet will no longer tangle with its basking glory, its glow, the breathing love in its stones.
And then there's the horizon. At the moment it seems like its arms reach to embrace us, the promise of a golden land of mana with cool and fragrant waters enveloping us in steams of tangerine... Scents of fruit and precision. But this, too, will pass in time.
This is the appeal of twilight. It shows us our dreams in unbridled color, but temporary and fleeting, strengthening its hold on our conscience.
There's a certainty, a finality that feels almost sorrowful. All of a sudden it becomes clear. Some things are never meant to return. No matter how tightly you hold them in your grasp or how strongly you bend your memories upon them, they will dissipate in a cloud of rolling sand.
Like the concrete under our feet. Feel how its warmth pleads for friendship? How it timidly asks us to dance? Yet its hunger will only last as long as the afternoon holds out. Once night arrives, it will grow cold, unfeeling, hard and resolute. Our bare feet will no longer tangle with its basking glory, its glow, the breathing love in its stones.
And then there's the horizon. At the moment it seems like its arms reach to embrace us, the promise of a golden land of mana with cool and fragrant waters enveloping us in steams of tangerine... Scents of fruit and precision. But this, too, will pass in time.
This is the appeal of twilight. It shows us our dreams in unbridled color, but temporary and fleeting, strengthening its hold on our conscience.
Well, a thousand and one miracles
are not only confined to your head...
The residence of lush, self made paradises
where things are taken for granted.
Is awakening really found
in the wisdom of books
flights of the imagination,
or in lectures, potions, concoctions?
Or does it come in the soiled roads
that dance and shuffle under your feet,
and the half glances of those
that need not declare their love?
Life, it seems,
is not the privilege of thinkers and dreamers,
of those who endlessly ponder away
whatever is left of their precious, golden mine of time...
The Zephyrs await,
and the warm breeze speaks
to those who walk,
feeling the soiled roads
dancing and shuffling under their feet,
and the half glances of those
that need not declare their love.
are not only confined to your head...
The residence of lush, self made paradises
where things are taken for granted.
Is awakening really found
in the wisdom of books
flights of the imagination,
or in lectures, potions, concoctions?
Or does it come in the soiled roads
that dance and shuffle under your feet,
and the half glances of those
that need not declare their love?
Life, it seems,
is not the privilege of thinkers and dreamers,
of those who endlessly ponder away
whatever is left of their precious, golden mine of time...
The Zephyrs await,
and the warm breeze speaks
to those who walk,
feeling the soiled roads
dancing and shuffling under their feet,
and the half glances of those
that need not declare their love.
... Ahh, impermanence. Do things really matter once you realize that nothing ever remains?
Well then if that's the case, then you won't be able to shine. See, what makes you shine is the time that you live. The fleeting glimpses of happiness that stick their little heads out of the window and say "see? look at me, this is what you live for" as they lock their uncheating gaze with yours.
So, Buddha was wrong after all. There's no point in eliminating desire when all you're left with are passing leaves under a pretty tree. Calmness, contemplation, internalization, these are all well and good while you're tasting the fruit. After swallowing, well, it's just longing.
Detachment is for fools, for old people, or for monks. When you long for something, well, it means it's usually not there. It might be for the taking, lingering in that pedestal you've built for feeling.. It might speak to you in tongues, it might come to you with the wind, or in a tornado of rhythm and blues that invade your closing eyes.... But it'll never be right there, holding your hand, feeding you with the golden mean of immediacy and love.
So, patience will cradle you, and the years will go by, and the monastery of the elderly will welcome you with a calm chant and a sly smile. Because nothing really matters, now does it? Well, only if you don't want to shine.
Well then if that's the case, then you won't be able to shine. See, what makes you shine is the time that you live. The fleeting glimpses of happiness that stick their little heads out of the window and say "see? look at me, this is what you live for" as they lock their uncheating gaze with yours.
So, Buddha was wrong after all. There's no point in eliminating desire when all you're left with are passing leaves under a pretty tree. Calmness, contemplation, internalization, these are all well and good while you're tasting the fruit. After swallowing, well, it's just longing.
Detachment is for fools, for old people, or for monks. When you long for something, well, it means it's usually not there. It might be for the taking, lingering in that pedestal you've built for feeling.. It might speak to you in tongues, it might come to you with the wind, or in a tornado of rhythm and blues that invade your closing eyes.... But it'll never be right there, holding your hand, feeding you with the golden mean of immediacy and love.
So, patience will cradle you, and the years will go by, and the monastery of the elderly will welcome you with a calm chant and a sly smile. Because nothing really matters, now does it? Well, only if you don't want to shine.
I wonder why we forget certain dreams. I don't mean the dreams of our waking life, but rather the dreams that we experience in the purest depths of our sleep.
Michael Ende wrote in The Neverending Story that our lost dreams were deposited in a deep, lightless mine, in fine layers of countless images. Absurd images, normal images, boring or lovelorn images, all kinds of images that had only one thing in common.
They were forgotten.
Sometimes I ask myself if I were to delve into that deep mine... What images would I find of my own dreams? Most likely, I would see innumerable scenes of my own life, normal stuff, things, big and small, that bear great or no importance to me.
Maybe my trip to Korea will be sandwiched in there. A few girls here and there, some of my old friends and acquaintances, places I've visited, food I've eaten. Sunsets and Sunrises. Everyday stuff.
Yet I know, for some unnamed, unexplainable reason, that underneath all those layers of commonplace happenstance, I would see an image, a basic quality of my life. I am certain that it would be there, not flickering for an instant, but constantly wallowing at a slow, measured pace. This image would be something like a river. That is my guess. A strong, misty river full of stones and surrounded by mountains and scattered houses... The mountains would have the soft, earthy, yet penetrating smell of soil freshly rained on as it opens its arms to receive the emanating mist. The sky above it would be slowly yet powerfully swirling in between deep blues and bright oranges, creating a canvas whose background is not hidden behind, but is included within the very depth and strike of the contrasting colors.
The river would run its course, softening its seams into a changing sky where there would be night and Cassiopeia becomes something else... A motherly figure outlined by the stars that smiles without showing her face. Her arms carry a basket, and her head is hidden winsomely in the sky, surrounded by spices and mountainsides full of multicolor, bittersweet leaves.
I do not remember this. I am not sure this would be the exact image. Yet I'm certain it would be there, comfortably holding the rest of my forgotten dreams.
Michael Ende wrote in The Neverending Story that our lost dreams were deposited in a deep, lightless mine, in fine layers of countless images. Absurd images, normal images, boring or lovelorn images, all kinds of images that had only one thing in common.
They were forgotten.
Sometimes I ask myself if I were to delve into that deep mine... What images would I find of my own dreams? Most likely, I would see innumerable scenes of my own life, normal stuff, things, big and small, that bear great or no importance to me.
Maybe my trip to Korea will be sandwiched in there. A few girls here and there, some of my old friends and acquaintances, places I've visited, food I've eaten. Sunsets and Sunrises. Everyday stuff.
Yet I know, for some unnamed, unexplainable reason, that underneath all those layers of commonplace happenstance, I would see an image, a basic quality of my life. I am certain that it would be there, not flickering for an instant, but constantly wallowing at a slow, measured pace. This image would be something like a river. That is my guess. A strong, misty river full of stones and surrounded by mountains and scattered houses... The mountains would have the soft, earthy, yet penetrating smell of soil freshly rained on as it opens its arms to receive the emanating mist. The sky above it would be slowly yet powerfully swirling in between deep blues and bright oranges, creating a canvas whose background is not hidden behind, but is included within the very depth and strike of the contrasting colors.
The river would run its course, softening its seams into a changing sky where there would be night and Cassiopeia becomes something else... A motherly figure outlined by the stars that smiles without showing her face. Her arms carry a basket, and her head is hidden winsomely in the sky, surrounded by spices and mountainsides full of multicolor, bittersweet leaves.
I do not remember this. I am not sure this would be the exact image. Yet I'm certain it would be there, comfortably holding the rest of my forgotten dreams.
The silent stars
whirl around you, over you,
And you ponder the life
of standing, of jumping, of sleeping,
And you sit,
feeling that destiny lasts forever,
nothing is forever,
And you grow older,
the memories start to fade,
And love is spilled, unmade,
today, tonight, tomorrow,
the day after,
And the day before.
All has been said,
And nothing has been lived,
all that needed remembrance,
all that had meaning, truth, the poetry of poverty,
The African skies,
The song of a thousand hearts,
The Prince and the Queen,
And the Rook, and the Soldier,
desire does not back down,
And you ponder the meaning of sitting,
And the stars turn to a smiling animal aurora,
And you foresee the future in multiple red ribbons,
One thousand million days pass through your eyes,
The rain falls,
The sun rises,
And happiness unfolds.
whirl around you, over you,
And you ponder the life
of standing, of jumping, of sleeping,
And you sit,
feeling that destiny lasts forever,
nothing is forever,
And you grow older,
the memories start to fade,
And love is spilled, unmade,
today, tonight, tomorrow,
the day after,
And the day before.
All has been said,
And nothing has been lived,
all that needed remembrance,
all that had meaning, truth, the poetry of poverty,
The African skies,
The song of a thousand hearts,
The Prince and the Queen,
And the Rook, and the Soldier,
desire does not back down,
And you ponder the meaning of sitting,
And the stars turn to a smiling animal aurora,
And you foresee the future in multiple red ribbons,
One thousand million days pass through your eyes,
The rain falls,
The sun rises,
And happiness unfolds.
Las pequeñas cosas... resplandecientes...
La unica forma de describirlas son cosas.
Pequeñas, amorfas, deliciosas.
Juventud...
Juventud y calma.
La vida y el deseo,
Y el subito, eterno dormir que culmina
en una nota que se alarga y se prolonga
y cambia de animo
y de color y de tintura
a medida... No, sin medida.
Como una flor que abre sus petalos.
Esta es la verdad, que me recibe y me atrae
y me da la bienvenida sin ninguna cortesia.
Porque la cortesia no es necesaria,
se vuelve superflua frente a la cara de
la emocion sincera que me mira de frente
y baja los ojos cuando
por fin, despues de tanto tittubear,
acepto su atronador abrazo.
La unica forma de describirlas son cosas.
Pequeñas, amorfas, deliciosas.
Juventud...
Juventud y calma.
La vida y el deseo,
Y el subito, eterno dormir que culmina
en una nota que se alarga y se prolonga
y cambia de animo
y de color y de tintura
a medida... No, sin medida.
Como una flor que abre sus petalos.
Esta es la verdad, que me recibe y me atrae
y me da la bienvenida sin ninguna cortesia.
Porque la cortesia no es necesaria,
se vuelve superflua frente a la cara de
la emocion sincera que me mira de frente
y baja los ojos cuando
por fin, despues de tanto tittubear,
acepto su atronador abrazo.
Strangely enough, there's more to this evening than just the quaintness of its breeze, the comforts of its temperament, the simple truths of its twilight.
There's a certainty, a finality that feels almost sorrowful. All of a sudden it becomes clear. Some things are never meant to return. No matter how tightly you hold them in your grasp or how strongly you bend your memories upon them, they will dissipate in a cloud of rolling sand.
Like the concrete under our feet. Feel how its warmth pleads for friendship? Its hunger will only last as long as the afternoon holds out. Once night arrives, it will grow cold, unfeeling, hard and resolute. Our bare feet will no longer tangle with its basking glory, its glow, the breathing love in its stones willing to dance.
And then there's the horizon. At the moment it seems like its arms reach to embrace us, the promise a golden land of mana with cool and fragrant waters enveloping us in tangerine steam. But that too, shall pass.
This is the appeal of twilight. It shows us our dreams while reminding us of their impending doom, strengthening its hold on our conscience.
There's a certainty, a finality that feels almost sorrowful. All of a sudden it becomes clear. Some things are never meant to return. No matter how tightly you hold them in your grasp or how strongly you bend your memories upon them, they will dissipate in a cloud of rolling sand.
Like the concrete under our feet. Feel how its warmth pleads for friendship? Its hunger will only last as long as the afternoon holds out. Once night arrives, it will grow cold, unfeeling, hard and resolute. Our bare feet will no longer tangle with its basking glory, its glow, the breathing love in its stones willing to dance.
And then there's the horizon. At the moment it seems like its arms reach to embrace us, the promise a golden land of mana with cool and fragrant waters enveloping us in tangerine steam. But that too, shall pass.
This is the appeal of twilight. It shows us our dreams while reminding us of their impending doom, strengthening its hold on our conscience.
... The bumblebees draw honey from the yellow flowers...
... Following their path...
... We could eat tangerines...
... Roll up our sleeves...
... Youthful and unhurried...
... Our shoulders drenched in sunlight...
... Sitting together in warm silence...
... Gold, green, and blue...
... Half parted lips...
... Breathe the hot air...
... Lowering your eyes to see the grass...
... You look up to see my gaze.
... Following their path...
... We could eat tangerines...
... Roll up our sleeves...
... Youthful and unhurried...
... Our shoulders drenched in sunlight...
... Sitting together in warm silence...
... Gold, green, and blue...
... Half parted lips...
... Breathe the hot air...
... Lowering your eyes to see the grass...
... You look up to see my gaze.
I know that...
The emerald leaves will eventually fall.
Those that are now so young and beautiful
will be inevitably left, forlorn, to sway in the breeze.
Yet, for all this knowledge,
I can see no time in your beauty.
No reason, no happenstance.
For I know what your eyes have seen...
The life of every summer, you have lived.
The silence of every winter, you have felt.
I know that...
Every song must come to an end.
The sweet melody, once so enchanting and passionate,
will eventually fade out into memory.
Even so,
I feel there is no oblivion to your beauty.
No epilogue, no destiny.
For what you radiate, it knows no absence.
The contour of your slender arms
makes the moonlight so meaningful.
The emerald leaves will eventually fall.
Those that are now so young and beautiful
will be inevitably left, forlorn, to sway in the breeze.
Yet, for all this knowledge,
I can see no time in your beauty.
No reason, no happenstance.
For I know what your eyes have seen...
The life of every summer, you have lived.
The silence of every winter, you have felt.
I know that...
Every song must come to an end.
The sweet melody, once so enchanting and passionate,
will eventually fade out into memory.
Even so,
I feel there is no oblivion to your beauty.
No epilogue, no destiny.
For what you radiate, it knows no absence.
The contour of your slender arms
makes the moonlight so meaningful.
So strange it is.
Our eyes crossed for a second and everything,
everything seemed so slow.
It was like I was trapped in a gentle, little story.
An old legend of a boy, walking in the sand,
flying his kite.
I could envision, deep in your eyes,
the reflection of this little boy,
stranded far away, so far from it all,
joyous and happy.
It was almost like
the clouds and the mist had disappeared
to reveal the last, falling blossom.
A child of colorful beauty
defying all logic in a world of greys.
Isn't it incredible?
It was just one second,
and I saw the gentleness,
the youth of your desire,
and the softness of your thoughts.
I felt the crispness of the spring morning,
and the mystery of the summer night
filled with fireflies
and possibilities.
I heard a motherly voice,
so soothing and wise,
urging me to come home
to drink from the bowl of love,
and sleep in a bed of dandelions.
It was just one second and I wonder,
what did you see in my eyes?
Our eyes crossed for a second and everything,
everything seemed so slow.
It was like I was trapped in a gentle, little story.
An old legend of a boy, walking in the sand,
flying his kite.
I could envision, deep in your eyes,
the reflection of this little boy,
stranded far away, so far from it all,
joyous and happy.
It was almost like
the clouds and the mist had disappeared
to reveal the last, falling blossom.
A child of colorful beauty
defying all logic in a world of greys.
Isn't it incredible?
It was just one second,
and I saw the gentleness,
the youth of your desire,
and the softness of your thoughts.
I felt the crispness of the spring morning,
and the mystery of the summer night
filled with fireflies
and possibilities.
I heard a motherly voice,
so soothing and wise,
urging me to come home
to drink from the bowl of love,
and sleep in a bed of dandelions.
It was just one second and I wonder,
what did you see in my eyes?
El cielo, increiblemente sereno, azul y limpio, reposa sobre el prado.
Una niña vestida de blanco y de parasol rojo
siente un hormigueo en los pies causado por los pequeños vellos del pasto.
El viento caliente adormece, dando sensacion de ensueño.
A lo lejos, se divisa una montaña.
Pero mas aca, en el prado verde y mullido,
la niña, quieta, se queda observando
a los pequeños insectos que revolotean, buscando la flor mas dulce.
Una niña vestida de blanco y de parasol rojo
siente un hormigueo en los pies causado por los pequeños vellos del pasto.
El viento caliente adormece, dando sensacion de ensueño.
A lo lejos, se divisa una montaña.
Pero mas aca, en el prado verde y mullido,
la niña, quieta, se queda observando
a los pequeños insectos que revolotean, buscando la flor mas dulce.
In a way that cannot be explained,
the wistful smiles of the children
have no age, no true owner.
They belong, as everything else,
to the river, to the streets, to the sky.
You see, my friend,
herein lies the end of thought.
Everything is lost, never to be found again.
Like the rain mixing with the ocean,
a scent that carries a forgotten fragrance
will never be remembered.
It is here, through this nothingness,
that true beauty will be found.
We will quench our dry hearts,
and love forever, for love is everything
and nothing.
And we will share joy with the children
and grow old, and melt,
and grow young, and dance,
for this is the song of the eternal, the beautiful
and the meaningless.
the wistful smiles of the children
have no age, no true owner.
They belong, as everything else,
to the river, to the streets, to the sky.
You see, my friend,
herein lies the end of thought.
Everything is lost, never to be found again.
Like the rain mixing with the ocean,
a scent that carries a forgotten fragrance
will never be remembered.
It is here, through this nothingness,
that true beauty will be found.
We will quench our dry hearts,
and love forever, for love is everything
and nothing.
And we will share joy with the children
and grow old, and melt,
and grow young, and dance,
for this is the song of the eternal, the beautiful
and the meaningless.
there is so much that can change
in the draw of one breath,
the unwillfull blinking of an eye,
or a full cycle of the seasons...
there is so much that can grow
in the sowing of deep-seated longing,
under a crisp red summer moon,
that turns ash into multicolor flowers...
there is so much that can die,
in the soft song of an abandoned girl,
a simple melody without words,
floating over fields, oceans of wistfulness.
in the draw of one breath,
the unwillfull blinking of an eye,
or a full cycle of the seasons...
there is so much that can grow
in the sowing of deep-seated longing,
under a crisp red summer moon,
that turns ash into multicolor flowers...
there is so much that can die,
in the soft song of an abandoned girl,
a simple melody without words,
floating over fields, oceans of wistfulness.
In blue fields, walking side by side.... under the moonlight, breathing recklessly.... Taking in the world. Is this a dream?
I have been brought up in a world, confused and brittle. Confrontation is imminent, yet waterfalls run its course through rocks, shaping them neverendlessly in a struggle between what is there and what is perceived. The rule of eternity and the powers of time.
Over the distance, across the ocean, over the mountaintops and lush forests that bathe my memory. An image of a different era, long forgotten yet still present within me. A time of departure for the sparrow. I want to love.
Yet so few things bring tears to my eyes nowadays. Forgotten dreams, a certain feeling or smell reminiscent of summer, of long days with red and orange dusks, the taste of friendship. How can I love if this memory is unable to make me cry?
I want to live. Drench my head in the cold waters of a well and feel it pouring down my face. I feel there is much left to pursue, things within the reach of a small boy's hand. I would like to think we are just starting, the effervescent ripples of joyful waves under the night sky.
Oct. 26, 2001.
I have been brought up in a world, confused and brittle. Confrontation is imminent, yet waterfalls run its course through rocks, shaping them neverendlessly in a struggle between what is there and what is perceived. The rule of eternity and the powers of time.
Over the distance, across the ocean, over the mountaintops and lush forests that bathe my memory. An image of a different era, long forgotten yet still present within me. A time of departure for the sparrow. I want to love.
Yet so few things bring tears to my eyes nowadays. Forgotten dreams, a certain feeling or smell reminiscent of summer, of long days with red and orange dusks, the taste of friendship. How can I love if this memory is unable to make me cry?
I want to live. Drench my head in the cold waters of a well and feel it pouring down my face. I feel there is much left to pursue, things within the reach of a small boy's hand. I would like to think we are just starting, the effervescent ripples of joyful waves under the night sky.
Oct. 26, 2001.
The fisherman
sits with his legs crossed.
A slight frown crosses his face.
He has been sitting there for hours
counting the shells in the sand,
one by one...
The silence is almost total.
Almost, that is,
for the sounds of that place
reveal less than what they hold.
"It is not improbable...."
-he stops to think-
"that some little girl
might have some seashells in her collection."
Oct. 29, 2000.
sits with his legs crossed.
A slight frown crosses his face.
He has been sitting there for hours
counting the shells in the sand,
one by one...
The silence is almost total.
Almost, that is,
for the sounds of that place
reveal less than what they hold.
"It is not improbable...."
-he stops to think-
"that some little girl
might have some seashells in her collection."
Oct. 29, 2000.
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