simplicism

He felt like a little green triangle, whose exterior angles, for one reason or another, just didn’t sum up to 360°, or, to be more precise, he would have felt like a little green triangle whose exterior angles, for one reason or another, just didn’t sum up to 360° if he would have know how such a green triangle would feel. Yet, due to the fact that he didn’t even have the slightest idea about how geometrical shapes feel if the disobey their mathematical laws he just uttered

I feel like shit… (which, by the way is amazingly close to how said triangle would be feeling if it’s exterior angles weren’t summing up to 360°.)

And just at the very moment the sound of the consonant “d” left his mouth and was fully pronounced, the walls of the room started bending around his rather vague expression concerning his emotional state that was still floating through the air as a sound wave, camouflaged as a furry ball of vaporized metal but still detected by the walls dis tonality and empathy senors, and as a logical result, these walls were trying to capture teh statement itself and shape it into a new and more appropriate statement as for example

I feel like a page of Friedrich Nietzsche’s collected works torn out of my book by some despicable creature and used as a handkerchief by this very same uncivilized and ignorant creature…

Unfortunately the walls of the room tried to conduct this very complicated and complex procedure while the speaker himself was still present and therefore by bending around him and twisting and pulling into various dimensions at different levels of time but still quite synchronous, they first transformed him into a pink elephant with a yellow tail and then smashed him against the wall. There he died.

The end

time
tears tides of tears
apart

tacking
thunders trembling terror
in your heart

tame
time by telling tales
of art

as you protect your diamonds shard…

sorry,
i just went out to get something, but then i found out, I didn’t know what it was I was searching.
I was going through my pockets and I found so many happy moments, crumpled and wrinkled. All of them were good and yet they didn’t last, they didn’t stick. Everything vanishes. Everything turns gray. I had a black sweater once i really liked.
Maybe this is just the way it has to be, but then, I look around and i see a smile, i see a sparkle in the eyes, laughter, freckles and locks
and a reflection of trillions of colors in a raindrop

I feel as i am scratching on the surface of a frozen lake. trying to catch a glimpse of what is buried underneath… And all i see is gray.
I know that someone’s on the other side,
i know her face, i know her well.
just cannot go just can not tell
her that she’ll never be my bride

all these days and all these nights,
we’re all just holding on to what we have
we all just wish that we could hear her laugh
but, teardrops capture our lights

[ratings]

the shadow was standing next to him, his name was fear, and with him were his brothers, pain, anger and desperation.
They were standing next to the bed on which lay what once was a man but now was not more than a carcass, not yet rotting, but with the last spark of live dying down steadily. The illness has carved out the body from the inside, with a blunt tool of furious torture, leaving a tired heart, pumping acid blood through burning veins, wrapped in bruised and wrinkled skin.
And as the moment feared and yearned for was approaching, he asked the shadow to come closer, to embrace him in his final instance, he pulled him closer, as his body started shivering and shaking, as the endmost riot of tormenting excruciating dolor slashed down on him, his bony finger grabbing the cold and bleak blanket of darkness, begging for comfort begging for warmth, for a last touch of someone, a last kiss, a last glimpse of compassion, a last feeling of a tear shed in grief for him falling on his face.

the dry, fragile flesh of his lips opened to let pass what was meant to be a fatal cry. Yet all that could be heard was a croaking moan, shallow and weak.

the body sank into the blankets, letting out the last fluids that were held captive, a cacophony of alarms started and was soon stopped by a medic, noting the time of death on a sheet of paper and calling the nurses for clean up. and soon this bed will be the cradle of someone else, only the shadows remain..

[ratings]

I touch my skin, from deep inside of me,
And I can feel realty, waiting like a beast of prey
For I am lonely and astray,
In a desert without water, cause for my soul I cannot barter…
But after fractions of eternity, I ask myself
How can it be?
What kind of beast are we?

All I feel is rage and hate, as I am chasing for my bloody bait,
and yet, all this,
is just some wicked fate, for which by far,
I was too late..

Too late to love, too late to die,
Too late to hope, too late to cry…

[ratings]

thank you

for inspiration and criticism…

the masses define themselves by indifference…
yet
some diamond shines
and
Sparkles

cuts the glass and opens…

my window to a whole new world…

as if thru your eyes, wonders just began to shape and seas and oceans drown this grey and lonely cage,

and I for once am honored
and humble
to be nothing more than a spectator

applauding to your grace

[ratings]

As the Background grows lighter, a shade starts to appear; a man can be seen on the small road leading into the color of emptiness. His steps forward are slow and weak; pulling his body in my direction, inch after inch. I am standing here, steadily, without fear, as i am free, I am breathing, I am pain free and not worried, as for whatever it is that may be happening, it is only a matter to my mind.

We have led ourselves ad absurdum, by our own definitions, we are the famous 1000 monkeys with 1000 typewriters, multiplied and to the power of many. We are the only reason, why we are here and everything around us is lost in meaninglessness.

Again I am still standing watching the silhouette of this man moving towards me. The road he is on is seamed with oaks each single one a thousand years older than the one before.

There is fog in the wheat fields next to the road, the moonlight is caressing it, its pale and dead rays of light are too weak to penetrate it. The wheat is moving to a rhythm that can’t be heard, but only felt. They sway in a collective trance, slightly back and forth, tilting their ripe crops. Every night they only wait for to be cut the next morning and so they dance together, to this rhythm. The rhythm of the heartbeat of a by passer.

I can see the face of the man. It looks old. More than old. Worn out, tired, like it has shed more tears in only a fraction of a second than I have in my whole life, there is no more sadness living in the eyes, no more worries about what the time to come may bring, no more fear of losing anything can be seen, because of the memory of having already lost everything is shining through the grey layer over his pupils. Although it is night and there is only the weak light given by the moon, I catch myself searching for reflections in those eyes, only to find that there are none.

I am standing face to face with this man, I can see his breath, the cold is stinging through me, down to my bones. The skin on the old man’s face looks like leather, blotched with bumps and scars, from thousand years of wandering through deserts, crossing mountains and oceans and searching for something he was never to find.

And now he is standing in front of me, face to face, staring at me, ripping my soul into pieces in a wink of his eyes. I know why he came, and he knows that I am aware of the reason of his visit. He wants me to wander with him, to go down that road he came from and if I join him, all eternity will be nothing more than this very dawn, ever and ever again, I will be trapped amongst the oaks and the fog and the wheat dancing to this old rhythm that is than not ever to be heard or felt again, but the wheat will still be swaying just like a memory of a live that has faded into dust.

Am I sad? Am I afraid? I would not say so. Honestly speaking, whether spending eternity in a prison with a somewhat morbid but beautiful scenery or spending a lifetime in this world, chasing for happiness just knowing that it is impossible to catch, prostituting yourself, selling your values and everything else only to make some more money a little faster, the difference is not that big. I look down. I avert my eyes. I see his boots, I see the dust on them, I see the scars and cracks in the dry leather, they have been to every place in this world and have been carrying their master for eons. I lift my eyes to his coat, the same old leather on the outside that is in some indescribable color, that once was black but now has faded into a tone, a pattern of millions of shades between dark and light one could loose hours simply looking at it. Its patina has given this old mantle more life than its bearer. The underlining is of a garment, harsh, rough and short threaded enough to be seen as a parody of live itself. The old man’s hands peer out of the sleeves. The same weathered skin as I saw before in his face. The fingers are long and thin, well proportioned with clean nails standing out only a millimeter over the fingertips. On the left ring finger there is a delicate silver ring, a more than subtle detail, this ring seems to be grown into the flesh of the finger just as if the man would never ever have taken off this ring.

I look up to the man’s face again I admire the weird and abnormal beauty of this face that is all but beautiful but rather fascinating, those eyes that seem to know every single detail and every moment in which a leaf might fall off any tree and that look of total indifference, this look of the complete understanding and comprehension of the full and absolute pain lived and experienced in every corner and every moment of every time that has ever been and is ever to come. And another look is in those eyes, a look of loneliness of solitude and peacefulness. A look that I understand, that I welcome, that I might find when looking in a mirror. I look down to where my left hand is, I look down on my left ring finger, and see the old silver ring I wear every day and never ever take off, and I finally step away from the mirror, turn around and start walking down the road I was always intended to walk.

[ratings]

an impact so hard that the soul itself bursts into pieces

shreds of metal piercing though flesh and crashing through bones

while sitting silently, with an indescribable smile of stupidity and pleasure

as the pain is forcing him to laugh

while his heart stops beating he is relieved

for from now on his live can continue in meaningless routine

in automated processes scheduled in fractions of hours and days

reaching for love has failed,
what remains are the wrecks of a fatal crash

[ratings]

Dissolve into a sea of worthlessness,

Let your soul explode, let the pieces drift,

Rays of sunlight, shining from a thousand stars, that are nothing more than reflections of candles,

In the eyes of beauty.

Grasping the frontiers of eternity

Between the hands of a no body

Finest Strings of purest gold

Vibrating to the melody of chaos

Inhale

Spirit is endless matter

Thoughts colliding

Giving birth to live and death

Melting, vanishing, creating

Every search comes to an end, as we begin

[ratings]

Images, pictures, sounds, words,

finding their way through a room,

falling, tumbling, stumbling, standing

running, triping, changing swiftly,

with flashes and noises,

to silent to hear, to sublte to see.

Light sheds pleasant shadows hiding corners, smoothing the world

Angels out of smoke floating slowly in harmony

Freckles of glittering light refelcted on an iris

The sound of breathing somewhere, not to far away…

[ratings]