“…..how temporary we are….” i found that fine line as i walk my eyes thru his entire story (http://myredabyss.com/2016/02/25/revolver/).
Are we not still frames move clockwise?
Are we not moving statues giving life to breath?
Star dust, a noble claim of creature made of clay.
Are we not stories composed into a bible we called Universe?
layers of reality he wrote (http://myredabyss.com/2016/02/16/pioneers/) while i woke up this morning, separating fragments in my mind, put back what belongs to dream realities and picked up what help me function in real world; the dress i am hanging to put on for my business meeting, my laptop, this is who i am here now and later. Just like almost every morning i have the same routine, separating fragments peeling the layers of realities. I suppose i have my auto pilot working quite well. I can easily set my self into particular mode; a working woman doing her best to get the job done for better living; to be able to travel far, buying books and artworks, helping her nieces with better institutional education, all that and other petty things, for the day; a nerd girl who is being anti social for the night (at times). I guess i am done questioning who i really am when all i can do is decide with all the limitation to decide of what i want to be. i am not about to summarize, it still is a journey.
I found it is not too difficult to get my demons confessing their sins. Sadly, they are nothing like grand demons who would take you so high so deep where your soul can swirl down the black hole to join the light. My demons are the ordinary ones who easily give in with only the imagination of cheap pot, easy fuck that i would forget the next morning. They are just ideas. Ideas that i teased my self while wearing this holy pretend, believing it would be more meaningful to slightly own them in me.
I should have given up by now, trying to make people understand, speaking their languages. My words are distorted to their mind. I dont know how many words i should have written but flushed them down to the bin just because i thought people will not understand. I am here for me, not for them, not for anybody else than me. I have fears that different than theirs, i have dreams that can not grow from their soil. How can i make them feel the colors that running thru my fingers when i try to hold the breeze? How can i make them listen to what silence has to say to their hearts? The beauty of solitude, the walking of this path for the solitary souls.
Even thru the years, hundreds trial and errors, little satisfactions, i still can not make my words dance majestically. I blame it on the wild clouds inside my head. It is easier to just sit here and watch the words of others perform their dances, rather than get up and compose your own choreography. But if the majestic that i am after, it takes more works than for the ordinary.