The events tonight has caused me to lose two people. One in front of me, another, gradually over time. Over time, I don’t need friends or enemies, I just need to uncomplicate my life.
So much to a point, I’ve lost my will to empower my living, I feel I don’t exist inside anymore.
Who knows, this could be my suicide note, for good perhaps. Upbeat, nihilistic adolescent: a disclaimer to an uncensored world.
You and I, we’re living in the same world, just different realities.
Chuck Palahniuk, Robert Desnos, Arthur Rimbaud, Jean Cocteau, H.P Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Friedrich Nietzsche, Neil Gaiman, William Powell, Anthony Burgess, possibly more, of whom I cannot remember, thank you for your works and your intangibles; thank you for feeding my sensory delirium chambers and fueling my thinking and imagination. Thank you for giving me what I can never bring myself to share with the world.
There are so many people I never met, but I want to thank.
You and I share no common goal, you and I have no resembling future, we don’t share the same mind, nor do we share the same humanity.
But here’s to you, reader. Here’s to all the things you will never do but want to do, here’s to your insurrection of life.
Here’s to the imperialist dogmatic syncretism of commercial consumerism and perfection we think we should have.
Here’s to nothing, for nothing is what we stand for and nothing is what we are. For nothing is the first path to something.
I didn’t find out the meaning to life, but I found out a billion ways to live it.
Here’s to my friends; people whom I have never called a friend inside, people I thought were my friends, people whom I thought held a sophisticated confidence in, people I talk to on a regular basis.
Here’s to the people who will never remain and will eternally be unspoken.
So this brings me to eternity.
If death is like permanent sleeping, and sleeping passes like an instant, wouldn’t an eternity be more or less an instant, no matter how long it is?
To those who believe in heaven and hell, afterlife, reincarnation, please just try not to differ and just stick with me for a moment.
I mean, it all comes to nothing.
We all were mostly somebody’s bundle of joy, having someone to instill hopes and dreams for us.
But in the end, all that knowledge and wisdom, where does it truly go to, death is death, but is death final?
Maybe it’s because I had a fucked up day, I’m thinking like this, but hey, isn’t everyday a wonderful day for someone?
MOBIUS STRIP
The track I'm running on
Won't be the same when I turn back
It's useless to follow it straight
I'll return to another place
I circle around but the sky changes
Yesterday I was a child
I'm a man now
The world's a strange thing
And the rose among the roses
Doesn't resemble another rose.
Robert Desnos, translated by Amy Levin
Death Be Not Proud
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
John Donne
Memory
I
Clear water; like the salt of childhood tears,
the assault on the sun by the whiteness of women’s bodies;
the silk of banners, in masses and of pure lilies,
under the walls a maid once defended;
the play of angels;—no…the golden current on its way,
moves its arms, black, and heavy, and above all cool, with grass. She
dark, before the blue Sky as a canopy, calls up
for curtains the shadow of the hill and the arch.
II
Ah! the wet surface extends its clear broth!
The water fills the prepared beds with pale bottomless gold.
The green faded dresses of girls
make willows, out of which hop unbridled birds.
Purer than a louis, a yellow and warm eyelid
the marsh marigold—your conjugal faith, o Spouse!—
at prompt noon, from its dim mirror, vies
with the dear rose Sphere in the sky grey with heat.
III
Madame stands too straight in the field
nearby where the filaments from the work snow down; the parasol
in her fingers; stepping on the white flower; too proud for her
children reading in the flowering grass
their book of red morocco! Alas, He, like
a thousand white angels separating on the road,
goes off beyond the mountain! She, all
cold and dark, runs! after the departing man!
IV
Longings for the thick young arms of pure grass!
Gold of April moons in the heart of the holy bed! Joy
of abandoned boatyards, a prey
to August nights which made rotting things germinate.
Let her weep now under the ramparts! the breath
of the poplars above is the only breeze.
After, there is the surface, without reflection, without springs, gray:
an old man, dredger, in his motionless boat, labors.
V
Toy of this sad eye of water, I cannot pluck,
o! motionless boat! o! arms too short! neither this
nor the other flower: neither the yellow one which bothers me,
there; nor the friendly blue one in the ash-colored water.
Ah! dust of the willows shaken by a wing!
The roses of the reeds devoured long ago!
My boat still stationary; and its chain caught
in the bottom of this rimless eye of water,—in what mud?
Arthur Rimbaud
When we two parted
Lord Byron
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
Lord Byron
This poem by Byron, by far is my most favourite, in sickness and tragedy, the perseverance involved. Surely he hath given me strength through these order of words countless times.
RESONANCE, Marc Ashley.
“Time,” she points again.
As though awaiting the fatality of a heartbeat to pounce onto her.
Bourne are her sorrows in bitterest laps.
Maliciously.
Malevolently, pacing; stalking her on the draft.
Prowling winter chill in the night’s white heat.
Where she walks, may she be buried.
Obsequies in dissent;
melodic dirges scatter like lullabies on an orchestrated symphony.
Sounds of which paint my prelude.
Tranquil recessed; beauty has no more definition.
“Hail thee who shudders the obesities of my thinking!” she blinks.
The flutter of her eyelids are my repertoire.
I will never understand myself, never will man nor woman living or dead be able to. For understanding is impossible is it not?
Illuminations; Liberation. Rhyming of which I seek not.
But what do I seek?
I seek the unexpected, with no premonition.
I embrace this like a sound embraces a surface.
Never will understanding be understood.
Fin.
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