Waking in sleep; sleep in waking - I observe the night, the silence, and Darkness. The coldness produced by industrial inventions is as artificial as light produced by gasses trapped in a long tube. Around me are pages of frames, of stories, and of perspective. All have one thing in common: Limit. From cover to cover, every word hangs in crystalized form, forever bound by flat sheets that could tear as easily as the pages that contains them. Save the Bible, all books hold no exception to this rule. And what have the book-kind for human-kind apart from facades of power? Foolishly we partake of its gifts, reinforcing our need for supremacy and "rational egoism".
In the sleep, dreams and fears no longer lay silent or still. In fact, they lie restlessly in the waking day. Night is their playground, we are their playmates, insomnia and nightmares are their forms of hide and seek. Strangely enough, one can never find either one of them. Fact is, both are found together only to be lost and found again. The cycle repeats itself. The walls cage in, forcing one to decide whether faith and hope are worth holding on, not to mention the possible foolishness or wisdom in doing so. In upheaval and desperation, one dives into confusion, drowning themselves in oblivion and seeming death.
Moments past... One wakes only to find one's self in the beginning of this page where all things are nothing but atrificial. I check myself, sweeating invinsibly and uncontrollably. Existence is like 1408. Perception is as subjective as artificialities, or "realities", for that matter. You might wonder even as you journey through these words: Where am I really?
A place that is not a place - a timeless place where all forms fail. All but that which is the essence of life prevails: Love. And I truly wake to discover how much I miss my love... Or am I?
And the rain falls in silence as the sun shouts beams of light. I wake to observe the night, the silence, and Darkness.
In the sleep, dreams and fears no longer lay silent or still. In fact, they lie restlessly in the waking day. Night is their playground, we are their playmates, insomnia and nightmares are their forms of hide and seek. Strangely enough, one can never find either one of them. Fact is, both are found together only to be lost and found again. The cycle repeats itself. The walls cage in, forcing one to decide whether faith and hope are worth holding on, not to mention the possible foolishness or wisdom in doing so. In upheaval and desperation, one dives into confusion, drowning themselves in oblivion and seeming death.
Moments past... One wakes only to find one's self in the beginning of this page where all things are nothing but atrificial. I check myself, sweeating invinsibly and uncontrollably. Existence is like 1408. Perception is as subjective as artificialities, or "realities", for that matter. You might wonder even as you journey through these words: Where am I really?
A place that is not a place - a timeless place where all forms fail. All but that which is the essence of life prevails: Love. And I truly wake to discover how much I miss my love... Or am I?
And the rain falls in silence as the sun shouts beams of light. I wake to observe the night, the silence, and Darkness.
1 seeds:
Don't books also create worlds of fantasy...of unimaginable dreams and visions, of hope, madness, and all other elements of the human condition? Don't they open an invisible door of respite--leading one to escape the dreary banal world into an undiscovered garden of eden? Sparking one's imagination into a limitless expanse even wider than the sky...
Is this going to be your permanent blog btw? :P
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