Oh my dear with a lost smile What to do in a cloudless night? Shall one hunt the moon And look for sunshine in the sky? Deeper than blue despair, acid sigh With a star sign shy
i. dream about flight
A delirium of mine Looking through the glass with dead wine Death and destruction of ego and mind My desire, delusional chaos and random destiny one acquires with the presence of theory A logical demise, the fury of meek divine savage, primitively wise
The sun co-exists with the planets, stars, meteors and organisms in this known universe. Yes we do know and think we have figured it out. Everything there is to ponder and wonder about, time-space continuum, metaphysics and missing link equations. The truth is the modern collective mass has merely but scratched its surface. The sun, like our individual soul will die alone. It might have been created by various connections and links to different trans-dimensional algorithms, patterns and puzzles but through its existence all and every connection with anything personal or otherwise, will be severed.
The mighty axe of death, dream and destiny shall fall and flood the lands with spots that darken the light, and through its path might it leave tracks of radioactive abnormal belligerence. Blinded by philosophic truth and massively untouchable pride and ego, the ignorance of a self-central existence. One shall be hearkened by truth and lies, perception, position and point of view. If not, luck should turn fate on its head and mock predestined testimonies. The stubborn shall inherit the gift and those who are always open would permeate the freedom of stillness. Silent, still and solitary. The herald of cosmos and its proportions shall be stranded, stuck in a hallucinatory state, transcendental of problems.
My personality questions my own choice of past, future and present alchemy. Semantically, these loosely strung choice of words would be poorly accepted by the adoring public. Those that know and do know, show that hate is stronger than love. The anger that hides behind the shy exterior of oblivion shines through, trampling over the harmonic bouquet of peace. The fields of tranquility is always questioned in doubt. The honest conscience of a conscious presence cloud judgmental schisms in science and in art. And truly, what the word dictates now is letting go and letting schemes of blunted tragedy and glory blur into one big messy pile of thought and memory. Those who speak of ideas, speak freely.
In the legitimacy of my memoir, I end this somewhat hazy opium induced pseudo-opus with uncanny prose and manufactured simile. It's like the end of a heavenly body, sun, star, planet or lunar catastrophe. Similarly, I end thee with the same analogy in the beginning of the passage. Process by logic and elimination. The fire of our soul lives, through its strength by interpersonal connections. It was good seeing the sunlight when its ashes escape the moon's grasp.
I look at the open sky and gaze at the stars, wondering whether there's others like me in other dimensions and planets. The dream will never end, although the war is never over. My sun will live on and wait in anticipation, to die alone and come back to the ever eternal question that eludes us all. What is unity, should I come back to One?
