Seeming Eyes: Part II

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.

Seeming Eyes

In the silent hours of morning I observe the night, the sleep, and Darkness. The night isn't always silent and motionless. In the seeming peacefulness, the screams of dreams are painted on a child's pale face. One's relaxed breath is as lengthened and labored as a man waiting to wake in the realms of eternity. Hearts race against each other, fearing that any unseen ambition will be snatched by another stronger faith. The ground on which one sleeps shakes like a violent earthquake, provoking fear within the soul, challenging the integrity of one's foundational beliefs.

The known life is what most are used to; death has always been taken for granted as another way of existing. Dreams, on the other hand, warrants the coexistence of life and death: One dies only to witness how he or she dies in absolute consciousness - in all sense of the word. One trembles in paralyzed rest, waking only in realization that the world is for the very first time perceived with another set of eyes that surfaced from the mind's oblivion. The soul is observed from the spirit. the body lays still on what seems to be a death bed. In the least of expectation, judgment is witheld. One wonders whether death has indeed come, or whether death has indeed come.

The unconscious surfaces only to observe in horror the massacre of conscience, leaving the pale, cold, and still life the way it has always remained in the so-called reality. It leaves being... And at the sight of dawn, the dreamer awakes with the knowledge unconsciousness left behind: that it never existed. The known life progresses as always, only to return to the routines of awaiting death since birth.