fourteen

words leave us in the vacuum
meaning clinging to the sharp corners
of once unblurred letters

sheltered in definitions
through them we assert our futile
need for a human truth

but nothing ever will be true about words
as whatever is true stands
on what cannot be written
what cannot be spoken

words as an excuse
for our unwillingness to create,
for our shame of being cast
from the Heaven we once owned

thirteen

tears, droplets of infinity,
doors to the shallow refuge of our souls
and their only proof

tears, liquid calls to Heaven
as hymn or damnation
but equally divine in their message,
their statement, in front of God,
that we are in His image

tears, chosen words
of speechless divinities
lie in a corner of our heart
as an old instrument
of a dismissed musician

twelve

eleven

will it ever stop?
that tremor in the hands
that gradually faster heartbeat
that flow of uncontrolled thought
that creative paralysis?

will I ever settle?
will my mind stop screeching
with the silent sound of nails
on the walls of a jail?

I crave for the noise of life
to bring silence to my spirit
the uncontrollable desire
to slit open, gushing out
breathing
sleeping

never felt such detachment between reason and spirit
absolute peace one one side
a bloodbath on the other
a detachment from life, from the flow of present

feeling like a heavy rock is gradually sedimenting inside my heart
from scattered remnants of unfinished thoughts,
mea culpas, and mismanaged instincts

a rock made of vacuum

ten

number of completeness
parody of our times
conventional like 10 is not 2 and 3 not 7

what is in fact complete if not our fear of completeness?
... of catharsis?

that umbilical cord, that satanic thread that keeps us on earth
and gags our souls screaming for spirit
feeding us with illusions of independence
of divinity without God
of creation without Creator

we look for completeness in the creations of "God incomplete"
philosophy, knowledge, science, wealth and power were
all made in mankind's own image: incomplete, imperfect, finite
and as kids in front of their broken toy
we look desperate at our grand dreams of emancipation, failed,
at the land bridge to Heaven, impassable

nine

faith

hanging in the balance on the chasm of "reason"
a reason shielding us from ourselves, from our true and vertiginous divinity

is there a reality we can grasp? is there a truth we can reach?
for what is love if not truth in disguise?
and what is love without faith?
an empty shell,
a calculation on false assumptions,
a limited theorem,
a postulate forever unproven

the absolute as the scarecrow of faith
the unacceptability of infinity
beyond its technical utility
the absolute as the necessity to delegate your soul to it
the perception of limited freedom
which binds the worlds to unlimited slavery

eight

restlessness...

feeling the urgency of detachment. Of peace.
The complete absence of the world... to rest in the thoughts
Getting the world out to welcome our self in... like a stranger from the street in need of safe haven.
Can we welcome ourselves in our own little house?
How open are we to our own truths... ?

thinking as peace and war, a conflict with the other self, the one we learn from. That uncomfortable mirror we can't break.

the breath quickens as in preparation for a battle, but there is no war to fight, no place to scream, no ears to listen. There is just the incessant hum of cars running by in a world too static to save itself.

seven

incoherency, key to a developing unrest
coherency, retarded and incomplete
an illusion to bind human life and feeling into a rule and code
like a machine made of levers and wheels

coherency is the language of control, doubtlessness, or dangerous fantasies
created to feed our need for bliss

OR does not belong to humans who are inherently AND, IF, never NOT
creatures made for expansion, conditions and denial of denials.

we are white AND black
we are pure AND filthy
we are believers AND blasphemers
we are plural, crystals of many facets cut out from the stone of a thousand colors

accepting incoherence, opposing forces and constant struggle
inching towards the realization of a greater self,
the Icarus' dream with no wings to melt

six

"I think computer viruses should count as life. I think it says something about human nature that the only form of life we have created so far is purely destructive. We've created life in our own image"

Stephen Hawking (1942 - )

five

Future doesn't exist. past doesn't matter. present is what is real
past as a political creation with the aim of distract us from the present and frighten us with the future.
Past is in faulty memories and corrupted words of historian, future in the filthy mouths of politicians, present in the hands of the suffering.

We are too intent in dreaming a future which will never come to care about a present which hurt us. Leaving us to forget about the only aspect we can do something about.

Present is when you create the future and delete the past. Present is when LIFE happens and God speaks to us. Present means action when past and future are just words written in water.

Present is that blinding flash of terrifyingly true reality within the deadly embrace of Memories and Hopes. There is nothing as terrifying as the present, the fact we live, that we are conscious and thus able to change reality. We always live a split second in the past, waiting for the present to deliver us some good news; never to peek in the real turbulent flow of one's own present.

What is it we are afraid of in the perception of life's flow? The consequent mind-body detachment? What is lying there? In that free flight, in that swimming in stormy waters. What can we reach? A truth? What are we afraid to discover?

four

“Society is like a stew. If you don't stir it up every once in a while then a layer of scum floats to the top.”

Edward Abbey (American Writer whose works, set primarily in the southwestern United States, reflect an uncompromising environmentalist philosophy. 1927-1989)

three

Happyness, the word of all words, the inconceivable concept so alien to most people
Happyness in belonging, humans recognized by their class, their status, their race, their group, their party, their color, their language and happy because of that.
Individuals as lonely ships in a thundering storm, seafaring disgraces to most people, madness on legs for denying the "common truth" the accepted "path to happyness".
Belonging as a sense of safety never completely achieved, an interrupted coitus. Happyness for having is desperation for losing. Belonging as fear of non belonging.
I am I, me , myself... and you are supposed to be you, damn it, not something else. I want YOU, what YOU think, how YOU feel, I want to grasp YOUR soul, shove it in my mouth, chew it and savour it like a rib from Adam. I want YOUR soul as nothing else exist but souls, roaming, solitary and united. One thing with the cosmos and among themselves, unity in diversity, the uniqueness of ones being, every moment a different colour bouncing off their souls, like glittering stars sailing on their milky way

two

in the middle of something. You start writing never knowing where it would end
This feeling of anger, rushing through me towards me. Projected failure, inconsistencies of living a life never begun
I
Where is I?
Should I return, should I spare myself.
Where does this fire comes from?
How to tame myself, chains loose, cage broken, devil amok.
Longing for a full breath, a true smile, faith.
How to forgive oneself?
Why also?
How to get reason and practice to collide, reason and faith to coexist, a stable ground

We sail, we never dock, and sometimes we get ourself in open sea as an act of faith only to see faith abandon us. And we are left stranded, fighting the waves which keep coming.

I need a rock, to crash onto and on which to build a new ship...a better one this time

one

how do you start a blog?
do you write about your day?
is it about being original? being read?
being known or being notorious?

why having a blog anyway?
are you being self-centered, protagonist in search of an author?
five minutes of stardom is all you desire?

being read
why being read if not to provoke?
reaction equal and opposed to every action
truth confined to books
world is unreactive, exhausted like burnt oil
a lesser form of energy
no energy to be, we delegate our being to the things we want
idols of a setting sun

provoke anger scream
rejection of the notion of truth
the artificial dichotomy between reason and passion
where the whole struggles to unify

be