For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me - Job 3:25
Sunday, June 05, 2016
One dark night...
It was like a Dave Matthews song...something that no matter how many times you listen to, you cant really be sure of the lyrics or the exact beat but still obsessively want to hear over and over again, hoping one day you get them right...
It was like standing on the beach with the waves washing over your feet and you sink little by little, almost falling... no...just the feeling of losing your ground... (which you actually have)...yet you remain standing.You just keep waiting for the next wave hoping you won't drown (but you don't care if you do anyway).
I kept hearing 'Crash into Me'. Over and over. It just wouldn't stop.
When you have that perfect moment, it erases all other moments that came before, wipes out memories that you previously held close.
And now I don't know if that is good or bad. Most probably bad. Because now that I'm left with just one good memory, there is an intense fear of losing it and being left bereft forever.
Perhaps it's best, like everything else, to lock this up and throw away the key. God knows I've had enough practice. All this might just be a dream, a mirage. This is just something that happens from staying too long in the empty quarter. Time to cross it before more hallucinations.
It was like standing on the beach with the waves washing over your feet and you sink little by little, almost falling... no...just the feeling of losing your ground... (which you actually have)...yet you remain standing.You just keep waiting for the next wave hoping you won't drown (but you don't care if you do anyway).
I kept hearing 'Crash into Me'. Over and over. It just wouldn't stop.
When you have that perfect moment, it erases all other moments that came before, wipes out memories that you previously held close.
And now I don't know if that is good or bad. Most probably bad. Because now that I'm left with just one good memory, there is an intense fear of losing it and being left bereft forever.
Perhaps it's best, like everything else, to lock this up and throw away the key. God knows I've had enough practice. All this might just be a dream, a mirage. This is just something that happens from staying too long in the empty quarter. Time to cross it before more hallucinations.
Friday, May 02, 2014
The American Dream
...is a bloody fucking nightmare from which you never really wake up. You spend the "good years" doing everything to stay here, as a student, then finding a job both not worth the time you put into it, and well below what you are actually qualified for, work insane hours cuz of some warped sense of obligation...ooh for your "good luck" that someone actually was willing to sponsor you. Then when you've had it, bargain with the same devils just so you can stay. And for what?? To be let down. The great dream? This is no dream.
But you can't go back. Correction. You don't want to go back. Because there is nothing for you where you came from. Not that you have something here. Nothing here. Nothing there. But the nothing there is compounded by a lack of life, freedom and security.
Is there more life, freedom and security here? Yes. Well, at least in the city. Now if the comparison were between a one-horse town (or NJ or American suburbia) and back there, I'd choose back there. Or would I? That is something I don't know anymore. At this instant, I want to stay here.
Any other place? Sure, but I'm too old to start over. And too young to be this tired.
It's all for naught.
There's just no time left.
But you can't go back. Correction. You don't want to go back. Because there is nothing for you where you came from. Not that you have something here. Nothing here. Nothing there. But the nothing there is compounded by a lack of life, freedom and security.
Is there more life, freedom and security here? Yes. Well, at least in the city. Now if the comparison were between a one-horse town (or NJ or American suburbia) and back there, I'd choose back there. Or would I? That is something I don't know anymore. At this instant, I want to stay here.
Any other place? Sure, but I'm too old to start over. And too young to be this tired.
It's all for naught.
There's just no time left.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Monday, December 02, 2013
Space and distance
The journey began a long time ago. It didn't seem like it then, it just seemed what she thought was like being inside the eye of a whirlwind, living inside it, surrounded by a wall of opposing forces that cancelled out. As long as she stayed inside, it was safe.
Time passed, and she figured it would be okay to venture out. By then the storm had moved across the sea and settled in a new place. When she looked out, it wasn't the desert of her memory. There were no empty spaces, but a dense population with varying degrees of white noise. And the damage in the storm's wake, was irreparable.
The desert was a holy place. It purified souls under orange skies and blazing heat. It killed thoughts that fogged the mind. Of course it did not seem that way then. A place is never the way it is in your head after time and space has passed. Then, it was hot; and the burning sand kept you on your feet running running towards the shimmering water that disappeared in the horizon.
And the fire consumed all that did not deserve to exist.
The desert is a holy place.
The desert is an empty place that allows you to fill it with any landscape you need at the time.
Where she came to, she had trouble breathing. Wet, humid air, filled with something that charged her skin, and made the surroundings smell of burned flesh. Is this what it's supposed to be like outside?
Then came other storms. Every time she set out on a new direction, different angels answered with their trumpets. Sometimes at cross purposes. Some drew her into the doldrums, some swallowed her whole and spit her out on nameless minor breezes.
And now the wind has carried her here. It left her bereft and alone, stationary. She is now in a different kind of desert. There is nothing holy here, just an emptiness that keeps reappearing like a clean canvas no matter what picture she paints in it.
Should she be thankful for the rest? Or had she died and didn't realize it?
Time passed, and she figured it would be okay to venture out. By then the storm had moved across the sea and settled in a new place. When she looked out, it wasn't the desert of her memory. There were no empty spaces, but a dense population with varying degrees of white noise. And the damage in the storm's wake, was irreparable.
The desert was a holy place. It purified souls under orange skies and blazing heat. It killed thoughts that fogged the mind. Of course it did not seem that way then. A place is never the way it is in your head after time and space has passed. Then, it was hot; and the burning sand kept you on your feet running running towards the shimmering water that disappeared in the horizon.
And the fire consumed all that did not deserve to exist.
The desert is a holy place.
The desert is an empty place that allows you to fill it with any landscape you need at the time.
Where she came to, she had trouble breathing. Wet, humid air, filled with something that charged her skin, and made the surroundings smell of burned flesh. Is this what it's supposed to be like outside?
Then came other storms. Every time she set out on a new direction, different angels answered with their trumpets. Sometimes at cross purposes. Some drew her into the doldrums, some swallowed her whole and spit her out on nameless minor breezes.
And now the wind has carried her here. It left her bereft and alone, stationary. She is now in a different kind of desert. There is nothing holy here, just an emptiness that keeps reappearing like a clean canvas no matter what picture she paints in it.
Should she be thankful for the rest? Or had she died and didn't realize it?
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Perceptions
If you look too closely at something, you will most probably lose faith. And trust. Faith in the object you look at, trust in your sight. Things look much better from a distance, behind a camera, through veils.
When you are in the scene, you are in it... there is no perspective other than the one single view you get when looking at it from one direction. And things are never pretty enough to stare at from one point up close. Also get too close to something, you can't really breathe. Then comes the lightheadedness, and incoherent thoughts.
So you need to move a little farther away. A lot further away and the thing you're looking at disappears. But if you were already too close, then disappearing is what you may need to do, a different scene is perhaps for the best.
Then maybe in the future, there is the possibility of a fond memory with the loss of proximity.
There is also the fear of an empty space, or a replacement when you return. And when you return, you may find that there is no longer a place for you in the space that you once loved.
You have moved too far away for far too long.
When you are in the scene, you are in it... there is no perspective other than the one single view you get when looking at it from one direction. And things are never pretty enough to stare at from one point up close. Also get too close to something, you can't really breathe. Then comes the lightheadedness, and incoherent thoughts.
So you need to move a little farther away. A lot further away and the thing you're looking at disappears. But if you were already too close, then disappearing is what you may need to do, a different scene is perhaps for the best.
Then maybe in the future, there is the possibility of a fond memory with the loss of proximity.
There is also the fear of an empty space, or a replacement when you return. And when you return, you may find that there is no longer a place for you in the space that you once loved.
You have moved too far away for far too long.
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
Moments of weakness
1. The hour before it starts raining.
2. When it rains.
3. After it rains.
4. When the sun rises.
5. 6pm and 3am.
6. The leftover times.
7. Always.
2. When it rains.
3. After it rains.
4. When the sun rises.
5. 6pm and 3am.
6. The leftover times.
7. Always.
The terror of memories
Sound. Smell. Sight. Touch. The fusion of all senses at a single point in time and space assaults the brain. You suppress this with all your might that it dissociates and shatters into pieces. These shards pierce you at unexpected times, latches on to current sights and sounds; diminishing, enhancing, and sometimes distorting the joys and losses of the present. This makes all memories and realities suspect.
Did it ever really happen?
Is this happening now?
Is anything happening at all?
Am I really here or out of my body seeing me then or now?
Is this a dream?
What if my mind is playing tricks on me?
The only thing that is real is physical pain and scars from accidents, falls, burns. So you seek these instead of creating new memories, feeling anything. You don't have words for feelings anyway. And sometimes you run towards the things that hurt you. And the things that hurt you most are the ones that have no words.
No words. Translate the feeling into images. Colors. The shades of red, orange, blue, yellow. You run towards this as you run away from the same. Some kind of cruel enslavement. But to have some semblance of victory over what torments us, we need a stronger, better version of the same weapon that attacks you. Bringing a knife to a gunfight? That only works in the movies. Not in this dimension.
Yet you wonder ... what use of having this Lazarus soul, to walk out of the grave bound and gagged and have no one to free you from memories of your dying?
Did it ever really happen?
Is this happening now?
Is anything happening at all?
Am I really here or out of my body seeing me then or now?
Is this a dream?
What if my mind is playing tricks on me?
The only thing that is real is physical pain and scars from accidents, falls, burns. So you seek these instead of creating new memories, feeling anything. You don't have words for feelings anyway. And sometimes you run towards the things that hurt you. And the things that hurt you most are the ones that have no words.
No words. Translate the feeling into images. Colors. The shades of red, orange, blue, yellow. You run towards this as you run away from the same. Some kind of cruel enslavement. But to have some semblance of victory over what torments us, we need a stronger, better version of the same weapon that attacks you. Bringing a knife to a gunfight? That only works in the movies. Not in this dimension.
Yet you wonder ... what use of having this Lazarus soul, to walk out of the grave bound and gagged and have no one to free you from memories of your dying?
Monday, March 18, 2013
Things die
It's been a long cold winter. Too long. Too dark. And things have fallen apart, got broken, lost. Words are not enough anymore. There are no words anymore.
The dark side is not a stranger, it is now the escaped shadow running fugitive through pathways in the head. This is war. And to win the many battles requires a long-term strategy. Which requires clarity of thought. Which is now an impossibility.
But as someone said, a probable impossibility is preferable to an improbable possibility. Hope. No matter how dark it all seems. For hope to escape the box, every other pestilence needs to have their run.
I don't know.
The dark side is not a stranger, it is now the escaped shadow running fugitive through pathways in the head. This is war. And to win the many battles requires a long-term strategy. Which requires clarity of thought. Which is now an impossibility.
But as someone said, a probable impossibility is preferable to an improbable possibility. Hope. No matter how dark it all seems. For hope to escape the box, every other pestilence needs to have their run.
I don't know.
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