irsinkast

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