Spring back to life.
Every taint or hue is more or less something not comforting i turn to things so dreary-like so mistaken of its own giving i forget sometimes that life isn't just mechanical dryness. learning to love to reconnect to nature is like watching a witch spin a thousand spider's webs the smell is cramming into a book noggin waiting for something returning to nothing smiling, but never realising why. everytime colours erupt into a frenzy, it burns my ears with its harmonic melody, turning my body from the inside out spilling all my organs on the floor in a euphoric loop.
to have a childless dream of nighmarish waking. every comforting, wry gloss of a sunset I shave my hair off my head, only to want to grow it all back. to walk by chanel and want to become all prettier, more feminine. it is a "guilty" yet repressed shadowy part of drinking stale-boned liver-washing we become one, twisted beyond the next frankenstein screaming beyond the lover's wrighty i am afraid of monsters; only to have seen one in a mirror. I see myself as someone else, a past so haunting that sleepless-wailing is a cry hound to a next bodybreak we live.
1: Learn to love everything, even death. Nothing is more noble than that.
2: Not many will understand the uniqueness of minds that seem deviated from the norm, they will only comprehend them as mad.
3: Laugh at everything. Laugh at the natural comedy of this world, because it will be dead if you don't.
whenever I look at words
they come off the page, flying all around me.
they draw upon their soul, looking into me
with hand-like grasps, no certainty enough for saying
that sometimes, each word has a history behind it
not a quiet thing a madness made but a sentience of folly
I am a mad fool, who dances in my dream
only to never live in my own reality.
I must dream.
Life of a Romanticist
Sometimes terror strikes
within the hearts of men
not jolly, but prejudice the reckoning
of wits we crave something not nothing
have we ever wondered what was like
since the dream we made for ourselves
luna disappears and yet we still imagine
discovering the galaxies left unknown
the cosmic horrors still keep us awake
we all want the same thing.
whatever you choose is for
your own consequence.
"Stories, are where are memories go when they are forgotten." - 12th Doctor.
To Live! To Life! To Love!
We must remember what it was like
Before we lost
I rather have a heart that breaks.
Out of all the years I have lived, I never heard anything more nonsensical that you don't want to get hurt, or suffering isn't a part of life. If suffering isn't a part of life, then why is there so much of it in history and around the world now? I am not saying that the tragedies of the Soviet Union and the horrors of Auschwitz were justified, but what I want to point across is that suffering is intrinsic. If the Existentialists say that "Life is full of intrinsic suffering" and that "One should bear the burden of being" then I must say, even reluctantly that suffering is natural. What is gained from it? You can harp about all the loss, the pain, the sadness, the darkness. Yes, there is. But no one ever talks about the knowledge gleamed. The experience gained. What happens after.
As an Existentialist who mainly follows Nietzsche, I must say my heart needs to break. It must. If it doesn't, am I any human? Would I not feel? Emotions are not just these chemicals that do these things to me, they are songs. They are stories, of the lives people had lived before looking through the world where our rationality has gotten a hold of itself and made us believe that this world can be "free of suffering" and the utopia of heaven can happen. It can't.
As Dostoevsky once said in his book Notes from the Underground : "It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly, that he will desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself (as though that were so necessary) that men still are men and not piano keys, which even if played by the laws of nature themselves threaten to be controlled so completely that soon one will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar."
"He who has a why can bear almost any how." - Friedrich Nietzsche.
"Never be cruel,
Never be cowardly,
Never ever eat pears!"
"Always try be nice
but never fail to be kind!"
"Laugh hard. Learn fast.
- Peter Capaldi, 12th Doctor
I turned the black-grimm dial only to uncover a secrets a mess from the sullen clockwork world, a noise so sweet it can kill the lines brawned from your skin.
"love the world. love the world. love the world. love the world.........."
turning pirouettes as pretty as the meadows themselves, they belong to nowhere and no one. if we could ever decide which tumbleville dragon to dance on until our toes curl and bleed let it not soar through the last promise ever made to the ever-changing hues of nothing. let it stay forever in our hearts, enclosed in a case of glass. we can't einstein this out of the state we are in. look at me. the flaws of this world, colourized into seams that stretch in our bodies, puppeteering our every movement. can i ask you a favour? bring me the world in a autumn rollercoaster carnival that lets us taste the candy floss air
bring me love that poisons you
and you will love me forever.
Ferox gens, nullam esse vitam sine armis rati.
Hope. What is it? I dare not say. I happened to stumble upon it, only to suffer even far more worser than before. Let me bleed black tears. The skies shall rip asunder once again. Every experience, every memory, tells me I shouldn't hope. Why? There's nothing wrong with it either. Maybe because I have been going on my own for too long, and I already have forgotten the roots that trace back to Genesis. "Do no harm. Love thy neighbour as ye would thyself." Every mantra you learned, it's useless. It's useless in the face of life's suffering, because not many have the strength to live and still expect the worse can happen.
Too many of us live in the guises of the masks society knits for us, only to realise too late that none of our desires are actually our own. "Where is God, then?" You may ask. The madman may say he is dead, and we have killed him. Some say that no, the Lord my God is my God, and to me he becomes indescrible in all of his majestic glory.
Hope is, nothing but man's justification for his romanticism and heroism.