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The music spreads its tenement over a city of spirits & coffee flats.
A voice chases the tail of a broken wind,
sipping sentiments from the minds of a people
aching to be free from the claustrophobic raiments of society.
A man w/his strolling guitar forsakes the city
in the lilac wake of a flute dream reaching timidly
for the hand of any god wearing a jaded dress,
spilling forth lace & perfect notes nearly weeping
in the midst of angels falling into flight.
Everywhere, the dawn lies september failures down in the tired streets.
A flower breaks its petals into bloom,
then laughs loud enough to whisper over the edge
of someone else’s beautiful scream scattered
across a concrete floor into insanity.
The door to the basement café closes,
leaving the bones to hallow w/in, where no one is dying,
but a funeral song just finishes its last verse.
No body hears the final note touch briefly on silence,
then dissipate into obscure obelisks.
On Thursdays, Friday turns to green to hide its child-echo indigo eyes
& week’s end follows a subtle rinse of sunshine around the corner.
Monday comes anyway w/too many melodies
playing in the private garden of a backyard cemetery.
The morning rolls carefully to the end of the line
& waits for the moon to glow
so it can let go & disperse itself into music,
sleeping in a bed of fluidic ambiguity.
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. ~Khalil Gibran
The incessant noise: it burrows through my mind like some kind of advanced technological precision military weapon. And yet if one were to speak of such an occurrence, should it be vaporised simply because it lacks all the evidence of tangible reality? Yet, how does the similarity end? When the bombs are over and the rubble cleared and the dead found then buried (if they are found amongst the rubble) in pieces?
I imagine, in some cases at a quiet small village in (allways) a “foreign country” (how insane that phrase!! How belittling and dehumanizing to be labelled such a phrase. *Foreign*, i.e., ‘You do not belong here.’ Which means your death is not only justified but righteous, because you are not human, you are foreign. Your stink, your culture disgusts the pure mind of the True American. ‘How dare you dirty our precious soil with your unwanted and uncivilized feet.’ With a “simple” phrase, entire popuations can be annihilated and the annihilator celebrated as victor! This green color be apt for such a thought: the colour of vomit and scum and shit. That is the conditioned, stupefied humanamatons created through slyly placed neuromarketing and micromanagment).
What tangible reality is left them (in that imagined quiet, small village or that sly-built humanamton)? Is not the continuing pain (or equivalent) suffered silently? Wrapped up in the reticence of truth? Lingering long after the village has been re-built and daily routines returned to normal? Is not the memories weaved into stories? What of that? Does that mean that once the visible violence has been swept up that the invisible also ceases to be? That is not to imply that I compare myself to those who were murdered (on both sides) in war. I only attempt (and perhaps poorly) at an analogy.
That pain can be invisible as well as visible.
*Image credits (all artwork used with permission through CC license)–
“On Suffering” by Hani Amir
“~Painfuless~” by Stuart Williams
“The Thinker in the Dark — A5” by H. Koppdelaney
“All the troubles lie on his shoulder” by Rana Ossama
A gallery of the above thumbnails to be viewed (deservedly) larger and on black:
I saw then that my sense of me being me was exactly the same thing as my sensation of being one with the whole cosmos.
I did not need to have some sort of different, odd kind of experience to feel in total connection with everything.
Once you get the clue you see that the sense of unity is inseparable from the sense of difference.
You would not know yourself, or what you meant by self, unless at the same time you had the feeling of other. Now the secret is that ‘the other’ eventually turns out to be you.
The element of surprise in life is when suddenly you find the thing most alien turns out to be yourself.
Go out at night and look at the stars and realize that they are millions and billions of miles away, vast conflagrations far out in space.
You can lie back and look at that and say, ‘Well, surely I hardly matter.
I am just a tiny little speck aboard this weird spotted bit of dust called earth, and all that was going on out there billions of years before I was born and will still be going on billions of years after I die.’
Nothing seems stranger to you than that, or more different from you, yet there comes a point, if you watch long enough, when you will say, ‘Why that’s me!’ It is ‘the other’ that is the condition of your being yourself, as the back is the condition of being the front, and when you know that, you know you never die.
*Quotes by Alan Watts, Eastern Wisdom, Modern Life
Image credit (used with permission under CC license)–
“Fractal Flower” by Daniel Chapelle
“Fractal Stock 01302012” by DsyneGrafix
“Fractal Gap” by Barabeke
“Fractal” by Patrick Theiner
“Fractal Stock 11912-2” by DsyneGrafix
“Fractal Stock 43” by BFstock
“Fractal Dragonfly” by Christoph Zurbuchen
“Fractal Valentine” by Laura Harris
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