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Not all of the time. Not even most of the time. Hardly some of the time. There’s nothing that justifies a compromise of that nature but there is no alternative. It is expected. It is the set of rules that keeps us from tearing each other to pieces. You’d say that I would come to some different conclusion after going over it this many times. But here I stand again. On the same point. At the same end. Looking at a choice that is made for me. By life. Every day. Because it is the only thing to do. Because it is the given track. I guess that is the middle ground that we all call morality. And it is by these rules that we decide which way to turn. Then why don’t these rules appease the soul? Because nothing soothes the unrest more than the things that can’t be? Nothing is complete. The life on either side of the wire. I can’t keep staring at this wall for ever, can I? I have to get out of this place at so

We all keep 'em. Drafting it up listing it up adding it up filing it  under obscure categories  cross referencing. Coming to conclusions. A balance sheet.  A measly attempt.  A frantic throw at equilibrium.  What wretched  hollow beast  has it turned us into.  This life.  This civilization.  I have seen your  strongest year  and your weakest hour.  They are equal. And equally impressive.  A powerful thrust of  natural energies.  Something fierce.  I have seen those tears  well up in your eyes  but they never were a sign  of weakness.  They were but a moment  in the middle of all  those other moments.  Living without patience  is not a defect.  It is a momentary lack  of focus.  It is  getting lost in the excessive  range of options. Always close your eyes  a little bit.  Even when they are wide open.  Always close off your mind  a little bit.  Even if you are in full interaction  wit

It's as simple as that. If all feelings and events are established  then there is no need  to continue  with anything. But there is a need.  It is unmistakable.  And there is your proof  that nothing is prearranged.  I would go even further as to say  that nothing can be foreseen.  And no effect can be determined  even after the actual phenomenon.  And probably nothing ever happened  the way it has been perceived.  All possible scenarios play out every time.  The world is always ending  or dying. And the world always pulls through.  It is in permanent expansion  and in continual crunch.  Let's take you as an example.  You think you know  what steps to take  and which pits to steer clear from.  You are convinced that confronting the indicators  will fix the defect.  A disorder that you address as  the culprit  the cause the negative.  You think you have to  treat it. Cure it. There is no medicine  nor

There is not a day that goes by  where I don't think about it.  Maybe there's not even  an hour  going by. Something is amiss. Incomplete.  Twisted.  I wish a lot of things  but the most profound wish I have  is that this reality would be  a little less phoney.  I vote for a more outspoken expression  of good and evil. Since we choose to live by  this self prescribed and  witlessly invented morality  it should be a lot more open  and out there.  Not the tedious little vices of people  stabbing each other in the back  spreading gossip  feeling envious of each other's achievements  pulling rank as if it were a true form  of hierarchy killing beauty and innocence denying the natural order of life and the pure material authority of dust.  It should be demons and gore  versus angels and glory.  Where malice is answered  with an exceeding judgement.  Seeing the inner kingdom  materialized.  Where everythi

Another white overcast   early afternoon.  It looks like rain  but it's not going to fall  I can tell.  Sometimes the air here feels like  it hasn't rained in years.  There is no wind at all.  I can't recall there ever having been any.  Not here.  Just like any other time  I'm sitting in the same spot  in the dusty reddish sand  at the edge of a lake.  The fine long grass  is strong enough to grow  as tall as my shoulders.  It has purpose and  seems determined  which is more than you can say  about me.  I didn't drive here.  I didn't travel here.  I didn't come here.  I end up here  now and then.  But almost daily.  The surface of the lake  is an ivory white and  of a motionless smoothness  like a titanium surface.  It is an unbreakable veneer  with only little ripples  of movement  where my eyes fall on its skin.  But they even out almost  instantaneously.  I climb a pitch-bla

My soul lives   on an abandoned mountaintop  far away from the toils  of everyday live  and it is becoming  more and more  of a recluse  with every day that passes.  It runs with the wolves  and it resides under the towering firs  in a simple cabin.  Where that empty wilderness used to frighten me  I now have found  it is just a logical outcome for me.  The way to go  after where I've been.  This place is far from loneliness.  It is crawling and bursting with purity.  Even from that isolated  austere place  it speaks to me  constantly  and I hear its warm voice  without interruption.  I've never felt  a deeper consolation  than the knowledge  of that unbreakable connection.  The tiniest sprout  has pushed from the seed  I have planted many years ago  and it has taken me ages  to nurture it to what it has become.  Sappy and green  and lush.  Glowing with energy  and rapture.  Full of nowness. 

I noticed that about myself today. I too thought  there was no difference.  Or that they at least were  connected.  But seems they lie  further apart than I ever assumed.  I aggravate every emotion  that could invoke  some kind of smile  into something  that brings back the daylight  and tells me that  the balance is far from restored. Everything is as it should be  but that won't inspire any sympathy  from the judgement  that is inevitable.  Laughter at least  is not overthought.  It just happens.  And that makes it  perfect.  And somehow  that's good enough  to stay breathing.  For now.  But I know  that things change.  So let's see how well  I laugh tomorrow.

Some would disagree with me but I defend the idea  that my inability to  say anything new  is no reason for me  to stop formulating. It may be a reason for you  to stop reading.  But frankly,  I don't give a shit.  Never have and never will.  If I can't have this  without the meddling of anyone  I don't want anything  ever again.  Why should we feel forced  to do things only  to be liked  or appreciated by others? Isn't that the wrongest objective  to aim for? It is said that an artist  can only be an artist  if his work is seen by others.  If he has an audience to validate  his expression.  But I disagree.  Strongly.  I've seen one too many talent  wasted  squandered  ignored  because of this misconception.  The desire to create  or make any move whatsoever  should not be driven by  response.  This is a systematic perversion  not an instinctive feeling. It is a type of twisted

The seasons change people. Again every year. They have a deep  resounding  and lasting effect  on the psyche. Even more so than  the weather  or the amount of sunlight  one is exposed to.  Now I want to believe that  it's all because of  magnetic fields  and planetary alignments  but maybe  just maybe it runs a little deeper  than that.  Is a genetic predisposition  not a material translation  of the aetherial concept  of predestination?  Why is there an innate system  of recollection to support  the process of adaptation? Why does evolution have  a memory  to begin with? Why do we inherit  anything?  And why does our mind  play what we think are  cruel tricks on us? Making us believe  we remember things from past lives. Enabling us to reach beyond  the normal thoughts.  Lodging an inbred set of doubts  in our hearts gut and mind.  A natural suspicion  that the four evils have been trying to

There has to be  a starting point. A reference. We choose our wording  yet we can't stick to it  because every day is different.  And the letters represent  far more than their shape  suggests.  So without the singular beginning  there is no consequence  nor any continuation  or aftermath.  We start at  a and end at  z. In every cycle that we produce. We breathe in and out.  All in all. Always. There have been  no exceptions  even in this here absence  of order.  Everything proves irregular.  Perverse sometimes. That is why  I opt for atypical contortions  of the will.  It is a lot closer  to a more natural form of  sanity. Something that dares step away  from this incoherently fabricated  muck.  Yes I too am still contributing  through this tirade. Where can the mind   ultimately break away. Where can desires bloom into maturity  instead of staying caught in this  underdeveloped carna

I'm still talking to you. Even though I have long established  you are not really real. You are a severed thought. A strange perfection that rises from  the far worse than imperfect components of me. It's like you're sitting  at a table with me. Something normal.  Reassuring me that  I'm not losing my mind.  But that kind of confirms  that I am. You are not a women,  nor a man.  You are not a lowly beast, nor divine interference.  You are nothing and omega.  You are what only comes out  when I'm alone.  You are that voice.  On the far side of  the bounds of reason.  There is an abnormal need  for recurrence to capture and store the nature of you.  For those moments when I need you most. When I'm not alone anymore  but I want to feel alone.  My conditioning program. Repeating gestures  patterns moves steps stares numbers letters ... Routines really. Things to calm me down  w

The word kept popping up. Only a few times but enough to get noticed. I read it in  a Smiths biography,  it became a little running joke  at work and a little later  it seeded a thought  in my dense mind. Since forever  or at least as long as I can remember I have been  suspecting life to be a fraction  of what we are meant to feel.  There is some deeply rooted frustration  that stems from the clash of  the subconscious awareness  that we can experience  let's say  a 100%  and the marginal outlines  of the insubstantial senses  our natural life bestowed on us   and which allows only  a mere 5%  of the whole to be actually disclosed. There is a sick kind of restraint  pressing our face down  like a foot on the cheek. Humiliating  and debasing.  As wonderful  and balanced  and content  your life may be it feels like there is something missing. The incompletion of feeling  is firmly lodged in its own

Humans have   such  amazing abilities stupendous features and solid perfections. But also  many  many  and immense  moral deficiencies. There is such  great contrast  in our expressions.  It almost seems as if  there are different  beings at work.  Other species.  There's  those that  are  driven by light  and growth  and there's  those that are rotten.  Infected.  Where most  have a little  or a great  deal  of both.  We wildly  throw ourselves  into unreasonably charitable  deeds  spurred  by the nausea of our  festering  atrocities.  We then guilt  ourselves  into love.  Degenerate love. There have  been a few   too few instants in which I looked  at you  where I could have  sworn that you too  felt a tenderness  free from all  that baggage.  Where I felt  that  you too  understood all  of it.  But just like me  and you are  just like me you

I’m not all that much for farfetched conspiracy theories but the funny thing is that the wildest guesses of the most paranoiac elements amongst us often turn out to be very close to the truth. Here’s one. The economic instability in the world is a calculated means to deflect public attention away from environmental issues because the energy suppliers and especially the most polluting ones feel threatened by the changing mindset.  They would rather see the world go to hell than lose business. They are unwilling to change their business model before all the fossil resources are depleted and their profit has been maximized.  It is the same strategy  the conglomerates have used in forcing politicians into exaggerating the supposed ‘global’ threat of terrorism to submerge the populations in fear and provide free reign for the execution of  the more obscure policies. We’ll have one hell of a time turning that around.

It has always been our world before our first ideas had developed. After our last breath has been expelled. It is not real. Stacked with errors flaws and contradictions. But it is our world. The most wonderful and colourful one. No heaven or hell. No ceilings or floors. It is everywhere and it is there for us. It is where we hover unbound and unseen. Where we long to be all those things we are not allowed to be. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that we try to have a definition of reality? I believe there are no means to achieve such travesty. Imagine taking a decision by wilfully choosing to ignore half the facts presented, doesn’t that make your perception of reality in that decision, an illusion? If I follow my reasoning from that point on don’t you think that if you make a judgement on what reality should or could be based on all the known facts (not only known to you, but to all of us)

Today a most formidable man passed away. The most formidable.  Why is everything  so merciless? Why are we endowed with such tremendous capacity  for grief? Why are the most ecstatic feelings  so deeply intertwined with  heartbreak? How can one man  be this important? To so many. To you. And to someone  as barren as me.  If I add up the total amount  of hours that we actually spent together  I will hardly get to 20.  But from the first instant  I knew.  And the next hours  only confirmed it.  I had been touched  by an energy beyond the range of others. One of those very few people  in a generation  capable of transcending  the barriers  the prejudice  the pettiness  of us humans.  Someone you instantly trust  with your life. Someone you instantly share  your weakness with  knowing you will not be betrayed.  Someone who captures  the essence of life, love and togetherness better than most.  Someo

Their ideals their dispositions their minds their opinions their general outlook on things the way they address people at what times they drink their coffee how they blink their eyes. One day they are wide open the next they close up completely. They feel like they have to do it. As a means of protection. Categorically. Drawing a line. Setting a perimeter. Fencing off their own lack of feeling. Or the surplus of it. That’s how people cope with the unyielding progress of change. All the things we see have already happened since we see them only as they reflect their light on a surface. We see only the echo of what happened after it happened. The now as we perceive it is not even now it comes to us from back when. But too late. Sounds are the same. Feelings are the same. They are a mere resonance or replies to echoes. Effects not happenings. It’s a strange thing to recognize that we are only manif

Sometimes you'll do things that you shouldn't but mostly you don't do the things you should. I once read that we may not be at the source of our faults but we actually might very well be the source of our frustrations. They dangle at the end of a chain of events a path of half-chance choices that we don't make when we were supposed to. We go neither way and that is always maddening. It seems harsh but everything is an 'either way'-moment. A sharp edge with steep slopes on both sides. And we know we should pick a side. But the prospect of sliding down either side is daunting. So our solution is that we prefer to overlook them. A slip of the mind becomes a slip of the soul. We balance our way onwards on the rim of the volcano. Not living by fire nor by transformation. We take the safe route that leads back to this same point. In circles. Long tedious circles.

I was looking out the window this morning from the kitchen at the office. Staring into the little open space between buildings. Smack in the middle of the city. And I could only think: this is not the life I want. Far from it. This is a substandard compromise. This is too far away from the place I wanted to end up. And worse it doesn’t seem like I’m going to that place anytime soon or ever. I refuse to believe that it’s the way of life. That the only way to live a balanced life, is to live a prescribed life. I don’t want the fears that were so carefully instilled or surgically inserted by the ruling mechanisms to actually govern my choices. Society is nothing without the excess of individuality. Without divergence. Don’t let anyone make you feel less about yourself only because you stray from the path of average. This was only outlined to serve a purpose that is not yours. While you are working your h

Everything breathes. So do our elations and desolations. They recycle the energy and find ways of seeping back into our life. Without foreboding, they reappear. And so does the range of emotions that accompanied them before. Like they were imprinted on your soul forever. As if nothing ever happened in between. But something did. The coarse edges of time shaved off some of your resistance. Like a glacier inching forward. Sanding you down to a smooth surface. Dying in its course. Carving and melting away. Leaving you dry and digested. Change is the fabric of time on its path to deconstruction. We are the remains of the process. The relics of refinement of a structure in the making. We are the deposits of adaptation. The items that couldn’t make the cut. This makes us dead set against transformation. Our reluctance has become a second nature. That is why we feel inadequate. We were never meant to be anything more than leftovers.

It is really cold isn't it. Some one percent  is hauling it in.  The rest dangles  from the trees.  Hanging out to dry  or something.  No stranger than  southern fruit.  No different from it.  As color is no longer  a discriminating component  in this here dusk.  This is all of  an unprecedented blackness.  The new weight  is ownership.  The heavier you are  the harder to hang.  Everybody has bought into it  for the promise of a chance  at the title. This is a clever arrangement  with a huge contingency of failure  and an even larger circle of collateral.  They will take it all  and blame you for being  so stupid and careless.  For signing the contract.  It almost seems devised  to serve the purpose  of scraping the flesh  off the bones.  Every single acquisition  gets lost to the method.  The family land too.  You'd expect it to be normal  for a human to work  reasonable hours,  buy a minimum  of healthy foods,  a minimal wardrobe  and in the course of,  let's say 25 ye

I see. You and me  and all of us  have these moments  too impossible to mention. We think they are  too feeble to mean anything.  So we cover them up  with beautiful  and exciting adventures  and forget all about them.  We delude  our potential.  We promise ourselves that  we shall live every ounce of this wretched life  to the fullest.  Wasting time is sinful.  Living,  forcibly is a deafening churning  conspicuous turmoil.  A flagrant legacy.  Every silent minute spent in search of  your own truths and standards  apart from the ruling belief system  is punishable by social rejection.  Which is like death  for a living being.  Our weakness  makes us fold.  Obeisant.  As if we are unable  and unworthy to discover  and develop our own morals.  Our self-worth.  That is something  all of them have feared  always.  Because they know  we have the only true  heavenly mandate over our own spirit.  They dread the day that  this innate consciousness will truly open up  on us.  Then we will all

Here is a principle of authority I would like to address. It shouldn't be so but in many cases the importance of things or most certainly the effects they engender are defined more by their envelopment than by their engrained value. This shows how people defile and strip the meaning of all things. Everything gets peeled and skinned to atoms. A word spoken by one gets a different designation than it would get if spoken by another. People derive meaning from their idea of others. From the impression left by others. Which is just conjecture if you're really honest. More impressionable people find more meaning. They stand in front of it looking at it wanting it. Frantically rolling in it. Less impressionable people absorb more meaning. They are doused with it through a dearth of urge. Disinterest is like a lustful magnet for substance. It scrapes to the bare flesh of a spreading chasm. A seeping, solidifying