The years are already blurry.
They create a false reality,
my mind. I don’t trust what it is saying though
like problems will disappear by tomorrow.
As a naive child, I hope so too
that I will live, and it is true
that I will see a tiny part of happiness.
I might clean my sight from stress.
I want to see it, but I can’t
because I know it wasn’t meant.
As if there were no tomorrow, it’s in hurry,
this decade is leaving me with a quick sorry.
I’m lost in the dark and I’m afraid;
I myself got myself chained,
and I know I could be anything better
if my light had just a bit flattered.
Alone, on the last word’s right,
I say I won’t reach more height
because here, even my self-hero flees
from my false realities.
What a terrible cavemen we’ve become;
cracking a day to another
in the dark where only wrong ideas come –
but shadows make no mother, nor father.
I can feel how it loosens,
my grab to the sense of reality –
I’m afraid to ask, to know
whether it is too late…
whether she’ll be there at time…
but she is always here
in my mind
Cornered by this ill-fate ordered,
but there must exist an alternate ending,
not scorched-land bordered;
the thoughts are so vain, but somehow mending…
Why is it so hard to talk to me?
I’m so easy to define and see
like a drawn circle on a 2D paper;
no need to think of infinite dots,
no need to calculate any of the odds
why we are a 2D paper’s spots.
I’m so easy to talk to as a 2D circle;
I know all about what’s a circle,
I have ideas who draws circles,
what’s the paper all around,
but in a glance, all the flat talk circles down.
I am not a 2D circle –
I am a ball after all;
I need to select 3D objects
to talk about the mere sphere
we see as truly- or non-coprehendable.
I talk about all dimensions –
nonetheless its name or number,
or how they are non-comprehendable;
I am an E8 mass of particles,
being everywhere, but nowhere as a whole.
I am so hard to talk to
because I am here and there after all;
there’s my shadow on a 2D paper,
there I am bouncing like a ball,
and such a changing shade is barely talkable.
It’s hard to say no to the magnetic draw of society,
to swim against the flow of a ready made reality;
like filling the gap in hierarchical despotism
or capitalist cog-machine of modernism,
but after one sees that all the same,
being ready to skip the game,
strives only what’s vital
for a human animal.
Who’s empty handed
Just badly have pretended
that had had something.
The destiny – whether one’s ready to
die on it or die for it –
has never been else than a given decision,
been our ever nature to screen it,
cast it, and act on it until we own our last deadend reality.
(The die has been cast. – Julius Caesar)
Once, I told you I wished we were free to our will
to be together as I do want it still –
without made up social contracts as religions;
what does love do with ruling nations?
Meeting you was fate of coincidences, that
we were sharing in life the same debt
from our parents and ancestors, the curse
that we cannot be good, only worse.
I’ve almost accepted the curse as my nature
when I met your highly pure feature
to learn, and go, not to giving up to learn,
but our demons led to give up to earn.
Breaking under hardship, seduction and pride,
concepts of dignity, the weak human mind –
I don’t know what could push us away so far;
but both of us stopped fighting who we are.
“If we met in a bar”, “if I could turn back time”,
“returning seven years old, would I do the same crime?” –
such questions pop up with no sense of reality
because we have but pictures, then we see through our cavity.
We believed it’s over – even if I didn’t and don’t wish so,
call it martyrdom, dignity – I don’t think so;
we just gave up on reality that we both adored;
and now we are living hell for it with no reward at all.
How much suffering, a mortal soul could bear
until recognizing that forgiveness is our divine elixir;
forgiving for giving up on us, forgetting the pain –
just like a wicked god-story; repent or suffer in vain.
I’m rarely dreaming.
Waking from a rarely dreaming,
I’m always screaming.
Only in my head, without a single sound,
But it’s still far too loud.
Realities are deceiving.
I’m never sure of when I’m dreaming;
I’m always waiting for awaking.
The thoughts and doubts form a crowd;
I cannot look around.
I’m barely sleeping.
I’m afraid I will wake up in the evening,
And it’s still the evening.
Being alone, in the deep night drowned,
Dreams or deeds astound.
It’s a funny feeling.
The morning should be relieving,
Even if it’s without meaning.
At least, I could be sure of the ground,
Not just being without a bound.
Am I dreaming?
I have no landmarks steering;
I might be sleeping.
Dream in a dream in a dream sowed;
In a mind that may be underground.