roight

In the early morning-
before the sun has fully risen-
when the air is yet crisp-
and the roads not too over loud,
Do you ever- before putting on your socks on your feet-
use them as sock puppets and say goodmorning to yourself-
so that you don't feel so lonely?

Really?

Fuckin' loser!

Another Coming

To believe that the glass is half full is to limit possibility! How much more excitement is there in life when you always have the possibility of filling that glass with something new and furthermore even having the choice to do so?! You will all envy my half empty glass, for I am free to act, yet therefore damned beyond imagination.

If a pessimist sees the universe spiraling down and backwards he is relatively more hopeful than the optimist who only sees upward and forward motion, for in the moment the pessimist is always at the highest and best place that he will ever know. As that point continually slips away he clings to his blessed remembrance. The optimist, on the other hand, is always at the bottum striving to gaze up at that which he will never attain in the moment- nor in eternity.

Wiser still is the man who sees that everything is spiraling in both directions and that pessimism and optimism will loop around to meet one another, yet just at the point where they would conjoin- diverge off into the infinite.

Even though the falcon is now entirely deaf, dumb and blind at least it hasn't forgotten how to beat its wings in direct defiance of any sort of falsely imagined falconer!

I am (in) the Shit

So here's the reason that I've given up on writing for the past month...

2nd History of the Holocaust Class:
I am shocked to hear that we will be doing an elementary school timeline approach to the Holocaust even in our papers.

I strap my seatbelt tighter and refuse to eat berries lest hemeroids appear.

3rd Class:
My project group and I develop a very inovative research project. We want to research how viewing the Holocaust as the central event of WWII and the past century affects how people remember and think about the Holocaust. Our idea is rejected and we are subjected to a webliography.

I seriously consider strangling her rather than trying to communicate at the level of a chimpanzee.

4th Class:
I have a major panic attack throughout the entire duration of the class summoning up only enough sanity to ask the professor "if we would be able to engage with the issues at a slightly more sophisticated level than fitting the triangle shaped toy into the triangle shaped hole?" These are my words verbatim, delivered in a clearly manic state, to a class of 70 people-most of them checking their e-mail accounts on their laptops.

She makes snide comments about sophistication for the duration of the class.

We watch yet another film that I've seen before about a timeline that I've known about since grade 11.

I later forget all about it and pretend that I am in a world in which elves, goblins and gnomes bicker over the most ethical, equitable and environmentally-friendly distribution of dew from the grasses of the magical meadow to all of Illuvitar's blessed creatures. I dance a frenzied dance.

Disheartened

My professor said to my class today: "In this class we will be dealing with the who, what, where and how of the Holocaust and under no circumstances will we discuss the why." And this very statement, I thought to myself, is the reason...

I May Possibly Be Back

I've been feeling a great deal of tension lately. My body, mind and soul torn asunder by conflicting forces, choices that I must make, steps I must take, words I must--spake? I've been pushed and pulled, up, down and everywhichway. But tonight I felt the sky open up, it cracked in half and it all poured away, trickling down into the gutters, into chaos and disorder. It is not order from chaos that I seek. It is the fluid movement of perpetual already destruction which I must learn to watch it ecstatic glee- change my perspective on the tragic scene which I am forced to spectate. If I continually attempt to exert my meager will upon the ineffable forces of the universe I will fail. I must lose myself, forget myself, feel the breeze on my face, the rain in my hair and let it all slide away to one single point that can spiral away in a aquatic backflip, drift down the stream, glide along the current, until I feel comfortable as part of the forces which are only painful because I won't submit to their inevitablity. There is no use in fighting the benign powers of nature. I have learned how to die and thereby how to live. Sorry for this figurative redundancy, but I'm still only human. Maybe soon I'll explain where I've been all month, but as for now I'm not entirely sure whether I've actually returned at all.

Purposefully Untitled

A whiskey would help this flow, the young man nearly said aloud.
Pulling the cork with two or three twists, the brash vanilla flavour rose quickly as he poured the amber booze into his waiting cup; and setting it down beside his type-writer, put his fingers to the keys.
As he wrote, the type-frame edged to the left with each stroke, pushing his topped-up glass toward the edge of his small wooden table. He calmly but impatiently grabbed the glass and moved it to the right, continuing to type. He sat.
No words come easily, and he wrenched off the dust-cover from his old machine; an orphaned 'Viking: Deluxe 10' he had picked from his streets trash.
He wrestled with the dust-cover, breaking the seal of the rubber tabs; twisting it from beneath the charging handle. The neat mechanical rows of strikers now faced him.
A bare black and red ribbon staring gaudily at the blank, white paper.
Some dirty, spoiled oil leaked from the keys; the 'j', 'g', and 'p' still often enough stuck fast to give his rhythm a dramatic balance.
He took a long pull from his glass; it was smooth, and warm, smelled of vanilla and cedar.
It didn't help very much- very little inspiration came of it.
He tried to relate the smell one March evening; when the earth was damp and sweet, and rich cedars scented the forest.
He was romanticising, he thought; the the whiskey smelled as much of turpentine as of cedar. The forest had smelled sweet from simple organic decay. Starch - sugar - fermentation.
He wondered whether he fit with the decay, or the sweetness-- the decay, he thought without much hesitation.
He took another long drink, and finished the glass. It didn't help much.

Haunted

We continue to add these petty pretty details to this house that we've been building for so long. It's almost done now. Even the last coat of paint is dry. Most of the workers have packed up their tools and have gone home. We've entirely forgotten to step back from these petty pretty details to which we devote so much time and energy and regard the entire house. If we were to step back, we'de see that this mansion is really a horrific haunted house. These details we've been adding are nothing but spattered blood and with every brush stroke, every song, poem, story, picture or film - or even every action- we make we kill ourselves more and more. We are creating spectres of ourselves, we are haunting this mansion we've made by destroying every scrap of humanity left within us by adding to its overlayden walls with our own blood. We are creating our own demise, we are creating horrific images of ourselves- phantasms. With the climax of this banshee moan our destruction will rush in like the wind through every door and window, slit and crack in the wall. Then with a great shake, a great spectacle of light and sound we will topple this mansion to the ground and nothing will be left. This is the state of our society. The horror grows daily.

More Doors Opened

I must begin this post by giving the majority of the credit for the ideas herein expressed to my introspective friend who for some reason or other decides to remain silent, yet has indeed profoundingly influenced most of the writing that I have done over the past several months.

I discovered yesterday the identity of the missed call which for some reason or other spurred me to write a post which I find brings together a lot of the thoughts that have been flying around in my head of late. It was a call from a friend who was driving down the road and was suddenly gripped with such an intense realisation that he simply had to write it down lest the moment slip away. He was entirely unable to pull over so he decided to phone me so that I could write down all that he was understanding in the moment. Of course, I failed to pick up the phone and the notion dissolved from his mind before he was able to turn it into language on a page. This is in-an-of-itself a perfect illustration of missed opportunities and thoughts that will never be remembered, yet there is a second layer to the story which makes it all the more intruiging.

From the scattered fragments that my friend was able to convey to me, those pieces of the image which remained after the moment had passed and with it the coherent thought, I was able to see that much of what he had realised was very much alike to what I written in my latest post. His thought had come to him as he saw the lights of a car flicker just as I had seen the streetlights flicker on, he had seen a shift in reality in an instant, and that shift opened up a window through which he was able to see something clearly rather than the usual obfuscated reality we find ourselves in. This is where the Irishman's thoughts are being used. As I explained this occurance to him he commented that it was almost as though the thought which had been lost by my friend had transferred to me. His idea had not been forgotten; it had merely lept through space and time to trigger a process of remembering and coherence in my mind.

There are a great many mysteries in this world, but the enigmatic connections between friends are the most interesting to me. I am moving to Tofino in a few days, something I desperately need to do, but not without regrets. Even though I have not left yet I already miss the people whom I would otherwise be able to share life with here in Surrey. I am caught by my need to leave, yet now that I am leaving I feel as if I should stay. Should I stay or should I go now...I don't think that I will ever look down on the lyrics of The Clash ever again...I've always hated that song, but I am beginning to undestand some of the subtle nuances therein. I thought that the singer should obviously choose the decision which does not cause the double trouble, yet perhaps it is not the relative level of dispair that the singer is getting at. Perhaps he is commenting that no matter what choice one makes it necessarily precludes other possibilities. This is truly part of what tragedy is, to be damned no matter what one does, not because of optimal and suboptimal options, but because of that nagging question, which lurks everywhere. Lurks from the bright lights of a stage to an empty bottle to the twisted metal of a car crash. That haunting question heard from the lips of madmen, visionaries and the wind, what if?

That last paragraph has little to do with what my introspective friend said to me, but really it is the interaction of what he said to me that allowed me to continue on with the thought. It makes more sense to me now why so many writers and musicians spend such a great deal of their time thanking the people around them who in some way or other contributed to the creation of a coherent image, their art. Just as my post was a subliminally transferred notion across a city, so the conversations I have with other people help to construct and build the ideas which I then write down. I realized this a few days ago as I was speaking with a poet friend of mine with whom I love to hold discourse with, but it is very clear that we have almost completely oppossing views, although we are similar in some very important ways as well. I can always be assured that when I speak to a poet my words will be remembered and somehow given life through another pen than my own. In the same way those who speak to me and share their perspective with me can always have the hope that at least one person has listened to, interpreted, interacted with and tried to express who they are. It is in this way that we might possibly be able to find ourselves, in the responses of those who are listening to us.

End of an Era

I am always put out of sorts when I miss a call on my cell phone. I will enter a room to find my expectant cellphone cheerfully and alarmingly informing me that I have missed a call, yet due to my technological ineptitude there is no call display to show me who had been so sorely disappointed to have missed me. Their identity is usually forever lost to me. Perhaps I am disturbed because I am entirely insecure and neurotic and am therefore emotionally devastated by the loss of a possible social excursion, or even a conversation with another human being. Yet, that indeed is it, it is the conversation! That chance communication with another being, lost by my absent mind-edness, that hope of connection with another being, that joke of a detatched engagement over a telephone signal. That missed call did not only represent a possible vacuous social enagement, but the possibility of one of those golden moments, one of those times that a friend needed to talk, and for some reason you dropped everything and went for a walk, went for a walk and talked, and together approached something which might actually be called a real experience of life.

Today as I was driving down the road in the early evening my eye caught the streetlights as they flickered on. In that split second I realised that I had just missed the flash of the dusk. I had missed that moment at which some city planners deemed the natural light to be at such a level that streetlights were necessary and that night should begin. During that flash, during that minute instance of dusk, I may have seen it, experienced it, but by the time the light had travelled to my eyes and I was able to process the stimuli in my mind it was gone. I've said it before, the dusk is something that cannot be seen nor comprehended easily. Yet, there is no point in writing, or even thinking about nostalgia because it will always come back to haunt you.

This theme of missed opportunities has been continually recurring in my mind today and for the majority of my life. A rather spontaneous friend of mine recently convinced me to move to Tofino where he has been living this summer, something I should have done 2 months ago. Instead I have been sitting around my suburb wishing that I was somewhere else, somewhere other than the blase tedium of the suburbs. I live too much in regret. I feel as if life has not yet begun because I am perpetually looking back. That is what I do, I am an historian, more to the point I am a human being, whose very existence is dependent upon the capacity to reflect and interpret the past. It is often said that he who forgets his past is doomed to repeat it, yet I have begun to see recently that the inverse is also true. The reason for looking back to the past is to learn how to forget that which we are looking at, let it recede into phantasmatic oblivion and allow oneself to drift on, unimpeded into the blazing glory of the infinite nonexistent yet eternal futures.

What was it about a missed cellphone call that made me think of this, to put together four thoughts from throughout today that I had thought I had forgotten. Irony indeed! Again, it is the possibilities incurred by the enigmatic caller. It makes me ponder what inumerable paths my life could have taken and could still take, what conversations I could have had, had and could have, people I could meet, faces that I might someday vaguely and hauntingly recognise. I will quote an introspective friend of mine to end my thoughts, "we don't know where we are, but we know HOW to get out of here." I don't know where I am going in this life, or even where I am, but I am confident that I know how to deal with that. Rather than fabricate a roadmap or religion, a purpose or a reason for any of this divine siezure that we call existence I possess the capacity to actually embrace all of it, the good and the bad, the dark and the light, the depressed and the manic... I have no need for trite answers or solutions, or even sight to see where it is that I am going, I just need to go...

Birthday Precious

A strange thing indeed it is to have something new in one's possession. This thing, this machination of inumerable complexities that even to look at the outer shell of its being is entirely incomprehensible to me. To not be and then suddenly to be is truly terrifying, like being born, as I was 21 years ago today. That is in and of itself a mystery to me. The other mystery being this me fellow who seems to think that he is worth while enough to type on this fringe of a typing implement. Where this being goes is more interesting than who he is. Who cares what colour an object is, an arrow is boring, I would rather witness it hit the target. Impact is interesting, not the detailed rigormaroo which superfluates the literary world. This is why I am unable to write narrative, or perhaps I am creating a new idea of what narrative is. I am not interested in the process, I care about what it will accomplish and where it came from. I have a tendency to cut off the beginnings and ends of my sentances, I know the middle, so I care precious little for it. I want to see the beginning and end. Those two moments which we are robbed of by reality. Since it is impossible to be conscious at one's birth, since even an old soul is unable to understand the new stimuli of a newly born child. The end is where we must seek the truth, that moment of death. "This is the end" spoke the wise prophet...I or we rather, are looking for the end. The problem with our physical reality is that we forget that we are not looking for the end, but rather the beginning, that experience we are excluded from remembering. We are looking for a birth that we can never have again, and since the momory is lost we never really experienced in the first place. We spend our lives looking for the end goal, but all we really find is our continual yet elusive beginning. And so I type on my birthday, that I am growing older, today I am 21 and my liver just turned 40. I must become a child again and truly smirk the smile which would allow me to jump off the edge as if my hands were always being held by come ineffable force beyond anything I could ever imagine.

Some Wandering Thoughts

It is not the wilderness that I desire, but the safety of hidden oases in the obscure corners of our steel and concrete prison. Those spots that no one notices because they are scuttling along too busy to see. Those spots where tree and grass and water and bird and flower thrive despite the pollution which surrounds them. To be in the system , yet melting its innards, eating it apart from the inside out, like ants carving a new kingdom out of a long dead tree.

I cannot wander, unheimlichen, without a goal or a home.
Even an arrow has a target.
There can be no peace or purpose without an end.
The mortal cannot hope to experience immortality.
Yet, in that is the answer, a mortal cannot hope,
but a mortal can merely do it.
Stop worrying about the future and live in the moment.

I don't think that it is possible for me to wander alone. For all the impossibilities of complete communication the mere presense of what may or may not be another person is enough to give my wandering a different element. There is a deeper texture to wandering with another; a texture which fades when I am alone. To wander slowly, saying little, focused on the rocks below your feet, yet forgetting them all as you move on, with a person of a like wander-prone soul gives more satisfaction than a vaste store of meaningless aquaintances.

A Dream in May

The music grew louder and faster than ever before. The three musicians wrote and played in a dark ecstatic fury; they were acting out all of the pain and anguish, beauty and joy in the universe. Colours swirled, blended into darkness; and then they were gone.

Suddenly I noticed my gradual awareness of the musicians' absence. Yet, those who had surrounded them were left with their song as it's elegaic resonance echoed on. At first the people played the song of the musicians, but then they began to add their own songs to the song. They captured the music, it endured, it was frozen for a moment...

(This part of the dream has been omitted)

I wish that I could work this out; I wish that I had the courage to sing this song. The musicians never returned; the song endured only for a short time, but its lingering affect, a change in the air could be felt, something had changed in the process, but the people know not what. The people began to speak of themselves and their own songs. They forgot the melody and the harmony, focusing only on their single refrain. The song grew dim and crept into the darkness of a heart that could not understand its sounds and thereby come to believe that it was his song. The song was able to reside and survive in that humid and dark sanctuary; alive in the ignorance of its host.

It may just be bullshit, but it was the moment that I realised that truth was hidden, something to be dreamt, that I was able to appear as if I were playing the game well, appear intelligent. I am really more of a lazy dunce. I see through things rather, notice ripples in dark corners. I used to think that I was merely observant, but now see that it is that I have different eyes; I've seen my eyes now, they are strange. True joy comes to those who realise that they have eyes, yet then chose to close them, being more content in their imagination. To revel in blindness, complete ignorance. The world becomes more vibrant to me, more pronounced hues of colour caused by the impending darkness. To see this beauty one must see and dwell on the absolute transience of everything. Everything is forever breaking down (or up?) into oblivion, but once it reaches its end it will have become everything again and thereby repeat the process. The spirals continually become larger and smaller?

(This was all a dream)

Clarvoyance

I try to run, outrun this flood, this torrential river, pursuing me, engulfing me, drowning me- Life! I claw myself out, make progress, see ahead- clarvoyance.

To do this I must decend to the depths, so that I can run on a solid surface. To elevate myself I must fall; I must drown to escape the crushing waters.

And I see, that glimmer, that shining hope beyond the myst and darkness, that something beyond the infinite which is our inner illumination. That is my sight.

Then, a gust from behind; I feel it coming before it hits, an echo of pain, a feeling that something dreadful is coming, like that static feeling before lightning, like contractions before a birth. I know that reality is about to take my feet from under me, undermine my progress. The river catches up. Did I slow down, did my sense of dread at the impending river cause me to falter, or did the river just gain speed? I am undone. I am again swamped in its confusion, mundanity, animalistic frivolity- meaninglessness. I have to start all over again, I must find my feet again and ramble on.

To do this I must decend to the depths, so that I can run on a solid surface. To elevate myself I must fall; I must drown to escape the crushing waters.

And so I escape to dark abstraction, a time of complete oblivion, but once I have passed through this night, a night more confusing than even the meaningless river, then I can move on once again. In the time that it takes me to decend life has moved on without me, I gain nothing, no understanding because the river is crippling my every attempt at peace and unity. I am caught in a perpetual cycle, futility. No matter how I struggle I can go nowhere. Perhaps I would do better to take the opposite, yet equally obstinantly defiant stance in refusing to join the river. What would happen if I were to decend and then plant my feet; let the river pass me by entirely. Could I stand long enough while the glacier melts, while a world of water flows past me? Perhaps I am not drowning thoroughly enough! So I have two choices:

I can remain in my cycle of defeat in which I try to outrun the river, or I can lie on the river bed and let the water move on while I dream of someday reaching that inner illumination, the light at the end of the tunnel which is actually myself...

Anchoured

I've been languishing here where I sit, this grim repose, wasting time.
Pretending to wait, false anticipation for something that doesn't exist.
I lie about understanding, fooling myself into believing that I am standing under something.
under what?
life?
perhaps I am above it?
born dead, waiting to live, maybe once I've died?
So I fill my time with trivialities, leisure, luxury- destractions from boredom-
the alternative being industrious labour- which I revile.

It dawned on me today that I was not in my body yesterday, and have just recently returned.
I am a captive once again to this listless ship-
suffering in the dulldrums of mortal existence-
unable to raise anchour-
smiling gashes in my sails-
longing for a rough stong breeze-
to blow into me, through me, beyond me, to carry me away.

If I could but laugh about this more often than I weep, then I would have the answer,
but my lungs have been weak of late, and I cannot allow the first peal of laughter to ring from this cold stone monastery...

Force

There's nothin' left to writ; it's all bin rot - ten away for so long that it would be scratchin' a stick in the dirt to make shapes of this shit.

Words count pecious little,
in the process of change, history.
Brute force continues to play,
the role of the dominatrix.
Thoughts count for even less,
vanishing even while they form.
Even if the pen be mightier than the sword,
and people remember words longer,
still...
a sword's a sword,
and a pen is just a stick full of ink,
and a thought,
unarticulated
is nothing...

Voices

What does my reading voice sound like? I have many voices that mimic out the world around me, yet this internalized voice facinates me more than any. I remember the day that I learned to read " in my head"; I just chose to switch worlds. Perhaps it is its similarity to my dream voice, that voice which I am barely able to hear, mostly in muffled sputters, that makes it so desirable to me. It is a comforting voice, a deep voice, yet higher, somewhere out in the world of the text. It has traveled through the words of the writer, to his life, and then back to me, through my life. I si a sort of interface; perhaps then it is not "mine" at all. Perhaps it is an autonomous spirit, a guide who comes to me when I wish to understand another being. A spirit of empathy; MY spirit of empathy. A sprite, a ghost, a geist, a spirit of me- could it be my soul? Maybe it is me and I am an outside observer? The outer eye, beholding my inner me as it travels to other places, through the words of others. Maybe it is this outer eye of never gets high or even drunk, this "rational" being which eludes external affectation. Perhaps I have been approaching real experience, but I have never realized who I am yet? I have been looking at the wrong me! I am the elusive one; this spectator, who is even writing this, the one who is writing this is not me, it is a journalist of my being- an observer of genuine life- it is my spirit- just as real- but not as potently ME- as I AM- the ONE that can be in communion- unity...I am a coward...I cannot finish this thought, maybe I will someday...

Acceleration

Fools with their sprinklers- I can feel the impending storm deep within my bones.
They can wash their cars- I can see the black clouds forming.
(tell me, do clouds no longer contain pictures, or have my eyes grown blurry)
They sit in their houses- the climate remains uncontrolled.
I hear the rolling thunder- they hear only the television.
I can feel the crackle in the air, I see the lightning stike
hot as the sun- perhaps?
as brief as joy- certainly!
The rain begins to fall, first in a dry sputter,
then it pours,
heaven opened up,
my downgoing,
is my exhaltation!
I can feel the storm, taste its power,
smell its lingering scent- O-zone?
I stand enraptured,
in its overwhelming strength.
I am in the storm, and it is me.
Together we will roll along the sky,
I- accelerated by its rampant degeneration- the storm killing itself,
raw power being acted out in an exquisite dance of-
light, sound, smell, taste and texture.

Within Cynicism's Grip

On the very edge of substance
near humanity
miles away from awe
stands the dull conversation
of those who do not see at all.

If I were a swine
I'd grunt with the rest

I'd swill in my slop
and roll in the muck

then I would truly know
what happiness is!

Namaste

It is impossible to see the dusk. It is an equivocal state of luminocity, in between day and night. As a child I would sit in a field and wait to capture a glimpse of the dusk. I was attempting to pinpoint the single instance, the flash, however brief, in which light turned into dark. When the restless illumination calmed to a peaceful and soft darkness. But, I could never find it. Try as I might my mind and eyes would either see day or night and then if I sat for too long then night would overwhelm, I would miss the dusk, the chance of finding the elusive, the chance to see the equivocal transition in which knowledge becomes understanding.

As I sat in the field people would walk past me. Some didn't give me a second thought; others were interested as to why I would sit in a field staring at "nothing"(nothing = not tv etc). I would tell my task to those who asked me, some laughed and walked away, others came and sat beside me. Some of those who stayed would claim to have seen the dusk and then leave, a select few would sit in longing frustration along with me. I have always been thankful for those who would sit and stare with me. It was more important that they be there than I knew at the time.

I think though, that I have seen the dusk now. I did not pinpoint it, it is not a flash, it is a becoming. In order to find the dusk I slowed myself down and stretched myself out. This can only be done by looking forwards and back and examining the process, the transition, the dialiectic, the image, art, an utterance of sight, of genuine experience. In the flashes of ecstatic sunlight and smooth dark understanding we see, but we cannot see the transition, the point where THAT WHICH IS, becomes real, when oblivion becomes eternity, in us, the fragmented pieces, the lens which gives existence to the luminescent/infinite infinity of spirals. In this drawn out moment, there is only holy laughter, intense laughter that is also weeping, pain and loss at having gained everything.

If only I could learn to reside in those drawnout moments of dusk, to experience the rending joy of equivocal/internally illuminated existence! To experience the connections of everything! Oh, it is certainly a good thing to sit with another, to share that moment, to be suspended together, twisted, inextricable linked in reality.

To sit in a field in the blazing hot sun- to be filled, dried and made incoherent and pregnant by knowledge.
To remain in the field while the elusive dusk passes by undetected- knowledge transforming into understanding.
To remain in that now-dark field, the stars and moon above, darkness enveloping life, a sea of contentment, a deep understanding, yet longing, a restless stirring, more satisfying than satisfaction, glutted appetitive satisfaction.
To pass through these three stages, especially with another person, that is hiros gamos, holy union with ALL THAT WHICH IS. This is what gives being to the infinite spirals of infinity. This is how the flint strikes the tinder. If we can reside with another within this process of becoming we can see and experience our role in creating, in being, in the infinite. WE ARE!

slip't away

I am looking for a language,
not taught to me,
not adopted by me.
I need a language,
but they all seem to slip away.

If I could outshout myself; silence the chorus of other voices muddying the stream; I'd truly be able to communicate clearly. It may be brilliant and interesting to refer to a thousand different things at once, but for real coherent image to form with language it must be honed to a needle-point. Those of many voices shall touch many faintly, but none intensely.

I have never been able to ignore my surroundings, yet at the same time I am completely oblivious of them. I am jarred out of contemplation by countless distractions, yet they are the only things which stop me from disappearing into the air. I am caught, in a limbo, called life. I need to be born, I need to die, I need to do both at the same time. Perhaps my quest to be a master of language is impeding me, perhaps I must let go of my need for communication.

Is not the greatest wisdom to sit in the wild repose of understanding, touching the air, tasting the sun, hearing the colours, smelling the grass and seeing all of it at the same time? I'm going to slip away quietly, but my body might continue to go through the routines of life. This is my down-going...