The Man with Broken Limbs

Running out to endless horizons to achieve nothing but a looping return to damned ideas and vicious circles. Tired, destroyed, reduced to a meaningless something that will never overcome empty thoughts and void opportunities. Running out but staying put while the warm breeze blows over us, ephemeral, passive, uninterested to what we say or mean. Burnt out, let down, blinded by the rage that crippled me into breadcrumbs, into paper waste, into the rejected ideas never considered. If I believed in tomorrow, would I be mistaken to skip an overpromised present which holds nothing dear, nothing beautiful? Would I be broken to the core, worn out to anonymous shreds by the fake and superficial forces of today simply because they omit, they ignore, the blissful that we could create?

It is funny to aim for a vision through self-interest, only to achieve perfect worlds with enslaved minds and hearts. Narrow-minded concepts proagate in the ether and simply stifle my running. Still here, probably, not seeing beyond it all, beyond the plastic stage, beyond the fake reassurances. Hey, the impression of moving forward can be riveting if only it were true. I am running out. Running out against the grain, against the idiotic laughs, against the me-too personalities, running out against the cheapness of it all. Until I have broken limbs and from then on no more.

The Man Who Fell in the Wishing Well

I fell awkwardly. I looked above the beautiful sky and night exchange a dance in a narrower and narrower circle. I saw the particles and the waves of light bouncing off each other. The walls making me fell unique in my descent, towards the darkness of invention, the darkness of creation. I fear you will not be there to join me despite the sky above reminding me of the beautiful things I could have had, I could have seen. Seek me not as I disappear into a world of attempts, failures and bursts of joy. Seek my ideas and what I stand for because I will hear those cries from afar, breaching through the walls of particles and waves, rippling like magma down the tunnel of dreams. Those dreams we have at night, in the dark, in the pitch black of our sense.

I fell down to the infinite, almost close to be the only one there. A singular individual in his infinite being. It is blissful in the solitude of this descent who nobody knows where it will lead to, nobody cares where it exists through space and time. I could see you or miss you forever because in the act of falling I feel the speed increasing, the air brushing my face, the risks multiplying, the ideas blossoming, all in an instant and all forever. Time slips away, out of my body, and flows down this narrow drain of wasted life. Escape is what I look for. For me, for you, for others. A leap away from the world stuck in time, frozen into a linear fashion where the horizon gloomily stares at you, as it devours the sun of all its life, as it waits for you to slow down and stop in pain. Pain to have missed you once and forever. Pain to have missed the chance to jump off. Down the path of faded moons. Down the path of reflected ideas. Down the wishing well. To the bottomless cup of an ocean of dream where nothing stands, nothing lives, nothing dies.

It is blissful to get there, take the journey through infinity, never to leave, never to arrive. For if leaving is dying, why our departures would have to be painful? Why time would bind us on this linear trajectory full of disdain and bitterness. I want to come out of the wishing well at the bottom of it, where I heard the flowers smell of happiness, where the breeze is as light as love, where you and me are one and the same. Where you and my dreams are one and the same. Where I could live and die forever. In one singular moment. In one perfect moment. Down the narrow tunnel of particles and waves. Down the essence of being. Wishing for the stars in the sky to light the way where the dark awaits and the brightness of life whispers words of encouragement.

The Doubles in Search For Answers

If you open a door that is closed, you will find answers that do not give reasons or hope. They will double and multiple the doors on which hold onto. Scared maybe they will open all at once sucking life through them, our dreams, our desires, our fears. And we will search once more keen eyes to remind us of why we open in the first place. And nobody will be there to tell us, to remind us, to comfort us for the choice we made and we will make. There may be people around us but blindness suddenly pervades and deafness too isolates into our world of doors opening and closing, opening and closing...

The little light shines on out of the window or through the keyhole. Our strong belief that an answer is out there mocks us day and night but we keep looking, we fight for the key that never existed, the map that does not take anywhere, seeking mystical treasures that would not enrich us a single bit. For you I do this as you would do for me. Hence, do I make my choice alone or is this an ensemble of fortuitous combined decision? Is the answer the one test to prove myself or the joint pride of a group I cannot really distinguish?

Search for answers, my dear double. Search them for you or for me. We all need to cut back, restrain ourselves, bring it all to down those snappy images, those little speckles of time we peer through to grasp the whole meaning of life, of an emotion. And in the end I will not know you, dear double, when my questions will be answered and my decision made for me by someone else other than us two. You will be nothing, an unknown never understood, a misplaced variable in a cosmos too big to handle, with too many doors, too many windows.

Perhaps those out there, the answers, the decisions, will look back at us in commiseration, or will laugh at us in mockery. It is sad to know, sad to hear, but we may never know and never hear for we are nothing you and me. We are a double zero. We are a double nothing. Figures ticking along without a trace, without pace, without time, without ourselves.

The Man Who Is Too Far Ahead

In the end our hopes are just specks of dust flung around by that wind of change we never wanted and we never asked for. My eyes always ahead, my mind always that step ahead. The step never made, never completed, never slammed on the shaky ground. It never happened and maybe never will. My eyes forgot to look back and sit with the many who suffer in their present. Am I escaping? Am I rushing to find out the different I or we want to make? Will my head spin and turn backwards like Tiresias? The doom of the future I want to avoid is the doom of a past I cannot escape. Running, rushing, making that last attempt to hide. Somewhere. Even if it is shouting the last promise of hope, the last offer of redemption from an unopened box, from cryptic speculation, from things that may and probably don't exist.
Should I stop hoping? Do I need to slow down with the pack and hum the blue notes of surrender? I know their path will lead me off the cliff. And what do I offer instead? Flying away perhaps. Or the illusion of flying by slowing down my steps, pretending to walk forward, and never step backwards, a perpetual moonwalk where I would be stuck in an oblivious lull. Oblivious to the care I can give or I will receive, when old, when crazy, when what mattered to you no longer exists, just like those specks of dust, blown away by a wind that is strong and pungent. It hits my face hard under a clear sunny sky. The subliminal message of a life shorter than the message you want to tell. Shorter than the change you and I will see. But I may warn you and scare for no reason. You don't look at the tomorrow I want to live in. It does not exist. It is a dream. And when morning comes I will be gone like dreams melting in the light of day...

The Men and Women who wait for the Dreamer and the Learner

Have you seen the man who dreams? Was it always there? Or did he move past the real cars and the concrete walls, worn out by fatigue? He learnt it the hard way. He paid his dues and was long forgotten. Under duress. Under hatred. Somewhere he did not belong. Many before him walked by, either suffering or forgetting what they believed in. Does this mean our faith shakes under the slightest tremble of the ground? Do our ideals vanish into a thin air until they can no longer be felt, heard or even tasted? And still I see the man who dreams stopping by windows onto a world he cannot face or recognise. His face is contorted into a twisted smile, a content grin, a stoic laughter at his destiny now obscured by forces he cannot grasp. He may stand there forever, maybe until all walls crumble down, maybe until all cars are gone, him alone with the fine dust that surrounds us all.

Have you seen the man who learns? Did you see his head open like a chest, his brains reassemble? Or did we imagine it all behind the comfortable barriers of our mind, our habits, our views and principle that hope a day the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow. Waiting here, killing time, for changes never to occur until the pressure is too much even for the fragile cosmos we live in. And we learn change will hit us in a blink of an eye, blind us with all its mighty force, and ultimate dry up the thoughts we so desperately held onto. For they are not ever lasting, nothing is, but we live forever in our multiple facets, our fragmented personalities, our unframed behaviours. The ones we hardly cope with and constantly distance ourselves from. The ones that make us human with all the irrationality and absurdity they bring to us. Acceptance will deliver us from evil.

Have you seen me at all? I think I miss you in the fog thickening by the minute. Is that shadow you or is the light tricking me? It haunts me day and night that I will never truly see it all. Just a game of shadows and kaleidoscopian colours.

The Invisible Friends Lifting the Circles and Waiting

I don't see it all and there all around it bursts into flames. Something tells me the regret will never fold, will never let go, and so we build our hopes, our dreams, to fix us one more drink, one more merry go round in a sad world. I hear you near me, I hear the sounds of clouds melting, I can smell that autumn air so close to me, why wouldn't you stay, why would everything have to die and whither away, lifting away as it moves to higher ground, pushed by invisible friends who waited all our lives, never lending their hand, never speaking in favour, never planting the seed of an idea for the love of those who eagerly expected.

And so we spin around, almost feeling invincible, powerful, void of anything I could lose, nothing in my pocket, nothing in my mind, for my heart is lighter, climbing higher. And you all let me spin faster, colours turning white, sounds blowing into a perpetual wind. The sky is clear, the breeze is cool on my skin. Where I go is where you will all be with me. Invisible but friends. Lifting but down somewhere. And while you wait, I shall sing. Sing that song that never dies, that never makes me feel alone, that always takes me to many places. And while you wait, she shall play those notes of calm and serenity. Needing to stop, to rephrase, is no judge to the beauty I feel, sense, touch. It is a flow that will accompany the spinning circles, climbing now beyond the stratosphere.

A tear shed on earth will melt everything away. A moment with nothing to believe in. Nothing to worry for as the ground fades, as the ground returns, as the moments you always wanted to learn, know, remember, rejoice. And it is as time goes by, you will feel fulfilled for the circles will keep spinning as the invisible friends lift you higher, waiting, waiting...waiting for the sun to bursts once more. Once more. And again. Trust me I can see you now, and I will see you forever, until I return. Some day. Some time. As we slow it down again, to make peace, to make amends, to see the world again as it really is. Forgive me, I am still here. And you are all there. There is nothing to compromise, nothing to return to.

Lift me up. Pull me down. Lift me up. I fall in your arms, lulled by the music and the caresses of a love that will never cease to exist. Lifting. Waiting.

The Women Crying in the Eternity Pool

Deep. Sinking. Holding off the drops. The shimmering reflection. How twisted and sweet it could be, gently evolving and down turning in that same old motion. Streams pouring down in hot hurtful water, vapourising away my thoughts and feelings. Listening only to the cries above, as the streams pour down bringing the pain of who is devastated, the debris of a life broken into pieces, whether big or small, whether insignificant or mind-wrecking. All stand around the eternity pool, waiting to be replaced, waiting to be called, to leave space for another crying soul called to face their reflection. But that reflection is only a multitude of silver and glassy streaks melting into a whirlpool through which only my soul will exit, soaked with the sorrows of thousands, the layered debris of millennia. And nobody hears me beyond that constant sobbing, that inconstant dissatisfaction, that nothing that will ever be or ever was. And I stand here in the eternity pool waiting for nothing, or for nothing to finally make me nothing. Here days, months, years, crack under the burden of lives wasted for that other, for that something that never was and perhaps never will be. Drum drum pluck the drops on my face, against the wall, across your burning cheeks. Stream down, stream through this eternity pool, hear the water crashing down for every beaten woman standing at the edge. hear carefully for each crash is a beat gone, I am gone, you are gone, drowning into nothing ever more for we are missed and ignore. Superfluous. Blissful. But hurt, slashed, by that silver, glassy streak.