Forceful awakening of Things to come

My image was sequestered in a second's note of surprise;

Taken into submission by unrepentant claws that dragged me into the darkest of alleyways -

And all that could be seen was the clear of my eyes, contradicted by fear and excitement;

Kicking and reaching for a branch of empty air, unable to scream for help

And scaled by the unsettled gasps of uneven thought.  

It was a dream like none too pleasant - and all too unrealistic to be tamed by uncertain immortality;

Being dragged by suspicion, laying blames by the dark.

It was the day of the night - when dreamers are awake and lovers sleep tight;

Emptying devotion to hopelessness, practising lone walks in the park.

Had not the cold sweats of shock awakened me from this dark reveille, I would have figured out the destiny of my forsaken mistakes.

What Fake teeth you have, Grandma! What Fake eyes you have, Grandma! And what Fake words you have, Grandma!

Sometimes, words have a power to describe the unconscious... And in between their lines lie the falsities of their expression - the unmasking of their true meaning is a pointless journey if not endeavoured.

The letters were composed for my eyes to view, and they devoured each sentence; paraphrasing them, almost immediately, in the back of my head.  And I smiled at their make-up.
Had it been known already that this was bound to be brought up?  Certainly!
And how useless they were to the brief sense of relief for their essay contained nothing more than old tales.

These words have been written and re-written many times...I wonder how long until they behave and come to be proper to their age.  No more lies, no more fairy tales, no more edited notes.  Just truth -- and truth is, these blank statements are a mere echo of future laments to come.

Surely, they may be fulfilled to their extreme; as it is fake and to its necessity, for self-confidence's sake, may they be proven logical over time and not just another narrative to be claimed.

The fruit has yet to blossom.

With the Sun at my disposition, I am lost in a trail of warm thoughts

I can't help but wonder if you've finally matured.

How far has life taken you, and where are the manners that you once had lost?
Surely, you contemplate as much under the Sun as I do under the Moon.

It is possible that time, which stands lost in the abyss of your insecurities, has done nothing but remain still - inept, unavailable, and unfaithful to your wants and needs.  But then, you were never clear about your childish desires; unable to distinguish between reality and hopelessness - rather refusing to make peace with your inner and outer self.  So time never moved more quickly than when you were absent from grace.

By day, you were the aesthetic painting of perfection; so ready to be available, seeking acceptance under the embrace of stranger bodies.  By night, you embodied the wishes of escape; so incapable of loving what was granted, seeking distance under the umbrella of comfort due to inaccessible fears.

You had time to practice the discharge of cold, crocodile tears.  And now I wonder if your honesty has rewarded you, or if your many lies have finally taught you important lessons.

And then again, you could still be the one who seeks the fountain of youth; though your aching body demands immediate attention, (if not affection).

Spoken like a True Drunk

Amused by the words I gargled,

Intoxicated by the contradiction of my words,

I’m entangled by this wet drought of inception,

And the moment of madness that had me lost in her thoughts.

The warmth, the coldness, the intrigue of strange flares,

Lost in translation but without a doubt

An adventure to be assumed;

Not presumed, as I’d venture in my drunken world

To have her reach out for my hand

And entertain my illusions for one frame of time too long

To be noticed.

Scribbling a story of our own

It is told by the nature of silence,

Come to life by the disillusion of reality

And the wrinkles of napkins that are torn or lost

In the pockets of strangers among the dark.

Where are the drawings of my misconception?

Are they kept in hiding for all to wonder,

Or do they tremble under earth,

Unwinded, unvisited,

Disoriented by a degradable sun?

But I remain by my seat,

Alone with the breath of my madness,

To implore my thoughts a rest,

To quiet down the naughty of its desire;

Though it detests keeping calm

Under the origins of secrets that need to be claimed

And revealed by the dooms of truth.

Déjame contarte lo que aprendí en aquella distancia

Ví una luz caer sobre el area de mi destino,

Y sin querer queriendo,

Fuí guiado a su brillante resplandecer.

Ví el reflejo de mi futuro dibujado por las manos de mi mente,

Y de un sueño traducido por el arte de un bien querer;

Ví también el poema escrito por mis dudas

Y de letras aún inexpresadas por aquel idioma secreto

De seres que hablan lenguas sin saber.

Talvez fué el misterio de aquella imagen;

Talvez fué el sonido de su amanecer;

No lo tengo muy bien entendido,

Pero si tengo cierto en mi poder

Que en la distancia aprendí del sentido

De un cuento inolvidable

Y de un amor que apenas quiere nacer.

If "truth is out there", where am I?

"My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them." 

- Mitch Hedberg 

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The lines were played and replayed in my head - "...I did not pretend..."
Maybe I should have allowed myself to pretend that these new illusions were real.  Maybe I should just continue to walk through the blue pastures set before me; to run along the jelly brick roads beneath me, between the space of my feet and the air that levitates me; to climb the lamp posts of nocturnal limbs that bring me closer to touching a star with their bright, blurry dust.  Or maybe, just like the fake plants, I should let myself succumb to the notion of waking up to face the world outside my vision.

What exactly is my reality? I asked myself. Contemplation could not go unnoticed.

An epiphany was found lurking between the lines of a comedic concept.  It exists - bare and vulnerable - among my silly pretensions, where the imagination plays a role in keeping the surreal alive.  But just as quickly as my idealist truths were created, so, too, were they discarded by my inability to sustain their flow - and I had myself to blame for the disillusion of outcomes that offered nonsense to my reality.

If "truth is out there", where am I?

That time when I saw true colours...

It is said that when a man has done an awful deed, his shame is reflected in the mirror.

"That night I saw my demon's face.  He stared at me with indifferent eyes - he was neither analytical nor threatening.  It was hard to define what his eyes tried to explain to me as my focus jumped between trying to make a firm image of his ghostly and blurry facial contours, and avoiding a stare for too long.

This much I knew:  Even though I could not fully make sense of his façade, I knew it was me, (or rather, the true essence of my shame escaping all reason, playing a dark and treacherous joke to the strange calmness I felt after leaving the scene of the crime).

Fear of what I saw that night kept me awake, and ever since I have been dreamless.  Ever since that time, I have become conscious of the eyes that stare at me in the mirror.  The same eyes that sit next to my bed invading the surreal world of subconscious thoughts."

Que lindo dueles, mujer

Será el sueño mismo, o mi realidad entera, que no es más que un Oasis de valor;

¿ Serás tu, mi bella dama, la que causa mi lindo dolor ?

Fue así que salió la verdad de mis palabras medias dormidas;

Y aquellos secretos que fueron traicionados por la mirada de ojos románticos,

Ojos angélicos de la dama que lleva su distancia ajena,

Me robaron de la desconexión que existe entre el cuerpo y el corazón.

Pero que lindo dueles, mujer.

Que lindo arde tu cuerpo al ser movida por mis cuentos infantiles,

Al ser tocada por mis ojos curiosos,

Acariciando el contorno de tu belleza con mis sentimientos de loco.

Será mi locura, que despierta alertamente durante las horas de un risueño, cuando el gallo canta y la Luna se esconde detrás de este lindo amanecer;

¿ Serás tu, mi bella dama, la que causa mi lindo dolor ?

Realmente, o idealmente

En mi locura,

No hay manera de describir

Lo lindo que dueles, mujer.

This year, Be Like Water

“Empty your mind.  Be formless, shapeless, like water…  Water can flow or it can crash.  Be water my friend."   -   Bruce Lee

Water, known as the “primal liquid”, has the ability to take on any shape or form – it is diverse and can be representative of the contemplative moment of the inner self.  It is seen, by some cultures, as one of the most important of all the Earthly elements; imperative to the survival of all biotic organisms in this world.  It is mysterious and influential with a manner of character unpredictable to the tempers of the season.  It is creation and it is destruction; it is the sea and the rains.  It is freedom.  It is independence.  It is transformative – as with time and growth; always changing…always adapting.

An epiphany comes and goes when you are given the opportunity to be alone with solitude and the chance to expand on the inconvenient thoughts that make the brain hollow.

This year, be like water. 

My Thoughts on the New Year - on a slightly sober note

It is our tradition, as reflective human beings, that we become quite contemplative during the last few days of the year and look ahead, (with hopeful eyes), as if we could foresee the near-future events that lie ahead.  Regardless, the mixed message is in place - some are bitter about the year that ended and wish for a better tomorrow, while others are grateful for the wonderful surprises that they were given throughout and wish (or pray) for the continuation of such goodwill.

Every year, someone sends a general message (with good intent) where hopes are unselfishly desired for the other person: "May all your wishes come true in this new year," "Cheers to happiness and good health," "May this new year be wonderful and nothing but positive," etc etc. - some good, positive B.S. (half of these people don't even mean what they say!!).
Then, of course, there are those who are selective in their message, sending good vibes only to those beings who were lucky enough to be in the right (or wrong) place at the right time...(These would become known to them as "true friends") - but are they really?
To answer this question one must first inquire as to the events that took place - and for this, some time of reflection is required, of which I want nothing to do with.

Most people tend to reflect on the year that passed and write their thoughts as a result of such recollection of memories (both good and bad).  I will admit that I began to do this as a way of figuring out my imperfections and my successes so that I could conscript my brain to create a list of resolutions that I would uptake in the new year.  I gave up on the idea as a whole, simply because I did not want to be held up by looking too far back in time, nor to teleport too far into the future without acknowledging that I was breathing the clock as it ticked away in the present time - it does the soul little justice to dwell too much in the past and forget to live.

And then, just as I became more frustrated by the idea of sending good thoughts to those I care about and remaining silent as a personal protest against the idea of hallmark wishy-washiness, I read something that really caught my eye:

"We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called "Opportunity" and its first chapter is New Year's Day."

With this thought fresh in my mind, I copied and sent the usual "cut + paste" salutations and embarked on a path toward beginning the New Year in my own way.  This year, like any other, is a book with blank pages waiting to be filled by the scribbles of experience.  Whether I title it "Opportunity" or something just as vague will depend on the sentences of each of the 365 days that are to commence with the ringing of midnight and the sunlight of a new day.

Cheers to all.