Its middle star, the sun, its outer edge, polishing planets in an eclipse, the yoke genesis, the albumen of a brownian sea of wishes. The figure standing in the center that is all life, standing opposite of the little we know of death. This symbol defies time, being its own beginning and end, containing rebirth in its very name, perpetual transformation giving off vitality, ever-changing it evolves and avoids ever having to cease. All hues in its chest are complementary, wings carry the motion always upward, and it can resemble a circle or a triangle or the shifting spiral. The egg has perhaps the meaning of all wonderings, and thus all magic known and unknown is there, waiting to emerge.
‘Minutes’ is a term that may define a dish best served at the beginning of a feast among friends, or it may refer to an un-natural constructed concept of time, that man has set as guardian and thief of his otherwise magical lifetime. ‘Minutes’ serves as a focused form of expression, of a small, frozen, fragile and delicate world, of a slice of time, a basic symbol of feelings, contained in the geometrical form of its nature. Each piece of the ‘Minutes’ series has an inherent message in its very form, a sober, clean depth of black space, sprinkled from time to time with the passing of water drop stars. One can travel from the singularity of a space ring which catches flight in its bounds, with an ancient shuttle or an ark, to different micro environments, worlds of a more simple or elaborate arrangement. One can look in the blue and red glow of mirrors, can aim for the sky with the personas of fresh snowdrops and one can grow reflections to the right and the left side of the corona of the tree of life. A passer-by will be able to look with either blue or golden eyes, towards a crystal castle growing under the night sky, see Orion rising or spend a night under the white galaxies or be reduced to silence gazing at the stars of first magnitude that keep punctuating the celestial sphere.
I believe you must hold your breath and then release it slowly and enjoy the day and warm up the core of your nerves and teeth and muscles and eyeballs, I believe you should slowly rock from side to side, resembling a tree that is free in the softness of the wind.
I believe we are a small fragment of the shining day star, a figment of its glowing image. The sun made us up, it invented us, and it colors the sky blue each day for our sake.
Perhaps it would be best to have long polar nights, so we could wholly appreciate and live, at the sunrise that will issue at the end of those black times. The dawn would be long, building up our enthusiasm and desires; and we would look at all the treasures above and below the soil’s crust, and more precious it would seem, even a grain of sand more golden that remembered in the darkness long, even a leaf now made translucent, and more over the face of the other, smiling in the full bloom of the sun rays, as it never did under the gaze of any of our small, own human candles.
Close the eyes now and turn towards the sun and find the world bluer and crisper when you open them, be rested in the light bringer of spring.
I believe people have forgotten the sun and do not even use it as a measurer of time or season, they have forgotten it though it lights their faces and blinds their eyes, and yet are fearful to stare in its heart.
I believe that most people have forgotten the sun, because they do not look into the sky any longer. Though some of them bring it back from time to time.
When I started on my way, the mirror trod on by my steps was clean and endless, going out far.
Cleanse the soul
Almost all the travelers, caught without awareness, have departed. The dusty corridors are aloof and empty, only echoes still linger in the corners of the cabins and down the circular ceiling of the gathering places. The command centers have long died down and perhaps one last stow-away was left daydreaming in his bed or around one of the desolate fish tanks. There are still pale lights showing contours, water dripping, some sheet of metal creaking someplace, but away went the teaming of life. Outside those long, corroded space vehicles, with crust eaten conscientiously by time, there is only the absence of sound, as their stretched, almost endlessly curved trajectory unravels.
From afar, they are crystallized wood, preserved forever in infinite wandering, and from even farther away, they are moving water drops trickling to and fro on a celestial blanket. Stars bloom around them and wave stellar wind as a salute and harsh shadows come and play upon their bodies.
My pride and resilience urge me forward, I am barked at by dogs that fear the light on my forehead, I am in such haste, that I keep bumbling forth into the tall grasses and the multitude of summer wild flowers and can not find what I seek.
I need more pale, violet-blue rounded flower bush petals, for the consistency of my wooden castle's sky, I have let the sun to set with too few flowers in my keep. All my flowers are fragile, the violets of white-violet shades, the gillyflower of violet blue and cyan sky and yellow, and most of all, the queens of star blue, which need the heat and light I supply them by myself in the absence of the sun, to be fooled into opening their faces , reluctant and shy. Their blue is the heart of deep sky and dark waters combined and I need them to signal and cover the top line of the sky dome.
Yet, I have made it to the gates of home, patched up the sky that lay on the floor of my room and brought the much needed color of life to the castle rising to the left pf the yellow twin suns. I was in the nick of time, as the orange star was just setting towards its base.
The Power to create a new world, full of complexity, though it be still part of the master environment we already find around us and which we are still exploring and experimenting with and being amazed by, is in each of us. I believe that, after you are reduced to silence by the heavy glittering of the encompassing stars and you start to hint at the meaning of this very fact, in your own feeble and exclusive human way, you may find that one of the ways to start getting back at gazing at that vastness is to create small worlds of your own design that match all that is created large, resembles it, but can bring amazement in the guise of the novelty of the counterparts and the new expression of patterns found in the macrocosm, now transferred to a micro setting. The micro environment that expresses the macro world is just another way of shifting meaning inside the boundless yet settled model pf the fractal pattern. By speculating on some basic attributes and material proprieties of the small, one is able to make a convincing image of the large. Furthermore, as an evolutionary step, you may convert the small world turned big, into self contained symbols of a mystical or an even perhaps ideogram type nature.
I believe that the satisfaction of creating and, better said, playing with your own environments, though inside the bounds of your self, personality and culture, exceeds the imagery that is mostly based on a technical replication of the outside world, as perceived by the senses. Though you are not creating worlds even a fraction as high and vast and free of limits and rationality as the stars you moved your gaze from when you first started, you are able to utter sparks and light up some faces sitting in the dark.
Spiral in the night
Though you are a thief, you can not steal the beauty of the mountains.
Thus, I will tell you of what you are stealing from yourself. I am going to remind you of this continuum. A thief in my own right, I wish I had the power and the means to place some of your own time under arrest and leave you to rest for the indefinite while. If heart-beats had no meaning in the measurement of time, I would hide your body from the warm sun rays, so that your essence would fly away towards the light, brilliant as a precious stone after all the ravages of time have been drained and fled.
I wish I could impart to you that, all that is of the spiral, either moves towards or away from the source, though the spiral contains no end.
Oh, I wish I were the thief of all thieves, and could teach you of honor.
Aiming for the sky
We can barely keep our feet on the ground. Our will to fly burns so passionately, in a steady crescendo, we keep on stumbling, in our hasty speed, to reach lift-off velocity. Or we may stand in one single spot, feet in a firm contact with the ground, building up energy in the leg muscles and in the fiber of our being, leaving thought far behind. Some of us try this by themselves, some clasp hands in passing, start rotating, begin a joyful whirling motion towards the sky.
One thing joins us, it is not fear of not flying, not it is the fear to fly; we are all pure will, aiming for the clouds in the sky.
If you could look through your hands, if your whole body were watery clear, set forth on an endless pool, how would you dance to the song?
You, who are so light to be carried by the wind, seeds gathered in dance, set your many feet on the water's lip, dance in sudden joy, glide into the middle of stillness, hang on to the edge and rest.
You, who are so fragile that it is hard not to be carried away, stand still, so that the light that shines so briefly and from very far away, may reflect you as you are.
If you could feel that the breath in your chest is lighter than air, if you could feel an always impending desire to travel anew, what would you say to your friends and to the sky, before being taken away into flight?
I, for one, would leave everything in that moment reflected in my eyes, as it is.
The glittering sleeper
They tell me I am found in the glittering dust of all miracles, but have not managed to overcome death. They tell me heaven is not enough for the ones like me, they keep building stories of the heart of mystery. They keep saying I do not remember how I have always stood in the place I now stand, in another dream-life of my own choosing. Perhaps I was never born, perhaps I will become forgetfulness. I can see the fluttering of endless wing pairs, inside the stone that bares me. The shell its self is made of music, keeping in all flight. The shape of my being is a separation from darkness, one clean cut line of vibrating light. I burn with every ending dream, come forth in each budding field of hope. They tell me I am the beacon glittering on the hill, encouraging all travelers to pursue endless dreams, they say a tree shall grow from beneath my roots, that stand for the sky of belief. They tell me I have long ended all wars and healed all pain, they tell me that I can not be remembered, yet I have set everyone free.
And so comes morning and better yet, come night, a joy to fight and burn one's inner light, a wish to live all, that has not been lived, to die another death and carry on and on, to lay again, to all avail, in the glittering dust of all miracles, spread forth in flight, and dream.
It was a clear day that watched over our journey, we were at about half way through and, after many days of adventuring through the beautifully ripe tall autumn grass, we took a bit of rest along a cup of solace for thirsty travelers, such as we surely were.
And as we lay in the dusky, amber shadows of the noon sun, and a quiet wind began to shuffle by, we saw that the sky was intense blue, as out of a new born vision of a child, kept clean of any stray clouds, open to infinity, un-oppressing in the heat of day. We took a long and well deserved rest, surrounded by grasshopper voices, before reaching back for the rusty path.
Come and join us in our hiding places. Come swim with us, unhindered by cardinal directions, forgotten are the ups and downs of life and space. Come with us, our cities are life overflowing, our laws are harsh, clean and direct, our colors different and very many and our voices silent. Join us, there is light still enough, here, deep underwater, there is always one more place still unexplored, another pearl will always be unfound and safe. You are almost as free as a bird in flight, safer and with equal grace, moving among our kind.
We have but one limit, that of our own high ground, the deep sky of our realm - the water surface that few breach, in play or by necessity, but none can live beyond its limits. It bounds us here and holds out all stories of any other worlds, only some rumors have leaked in, in time, and told us how it seems that, long ago, some of our own broke through and changed themselves into something new.
Spirit Tree& Sunbathe Shelter
I knew I had to go alone, I've known before that tragically, after some point, I have to stand by my self in the light that is too bright, leave them be in the shelter of some trees further down, spreading seeds in the wind. I knew I had to make a speech, I suspected that I would have to play the hero, as so many did before, and save my kin and friends and children yet to come.
I know the spirit burns hotly when near, I know that shadows shelter the mind and the helpful sleep is not always an ally. But I did not choose a sad part-taking, my goodbyes were hopeful though my heart had its very doubts, I waved back even after we could not see each other. I knew that the only advice came from the heart and not the mouth and that preaching wasn't worth the moon and back if eyes had no meaning carved in that one love giving one love hungry look that spirit wood brothers gave after they have passed beyond desperation and self worries.
I knew where I have been heading all along, the sun has shown me, I was seen by the sun and began to see in my stead, and now I must burn more, still more love inside and give out heat, radiate good fortune, to melt the murky shadows that shelter fear, indifference, a disappointed and prolonged thirst and piles of questions, old and senseless. I can not tell them that I have found, that I am all those answers, but that they have, that they are.
The first I have found, or better yet, that have been shown to me, were the best and the highest of all. Three woodpeckers have performed their task, enchanting to watch, and bared the trunks of three tall and healthy fir trees. The pieces of bark were almost warm in the sunny winter morning, as I have walked, without thoughts of my own, over the brown wet mounds at the bases of those trees of one family. Nature gave me then, her wielding, perfect smile, and whispered in my ear, as clear as the breath of winter's mountain air, that I have belonged to this world long before human kind did walk it. I saw then, with eyes that were carved by witty insects, by the help of birds, I began to see the many faces of the spirit woods race, each with a face marked by time and circumstance, much as we are, personas in time, each, a human, elf or kender, in disguise, and as I found them, they began telling me a story. And soon I did find, that though every tale was incomplete, each hinted at a larger picture, and thus I was compelled, not without joy or an unquenched curiosity, to search for their kind and reveal to my self and also to others, what took place in those parts that year, and perhaps, for many years that had passed.
' My grand-grand grandfather has told me of this and now I find it happening right before my eyes. We have all heard rumors of it and then the summons came and some went, but most of us stayed safely at home, in our timely sanctuaries. I have been told that this summer was endless and those before me have known the same, but now we watch from high places, from our high green castles, our brothers passing below the leaves. And as with any great event that is to come at the turning of the world, unique tales of places from afar come forth and are revealed, and our spirits find that their world, which seemed so small and self-explained and ordinary, is rather surprising in its loose and middle ends and full of hidden flowers and spices and kin unknown.
My neighbors are curious and leave their sleep and cooking and endless talks and tilt their faces through sprouting tiny leaves and soft moss inviting rest, to see them passing by, below the needles of green, dark branches, in columns, ranged in long, randomly punctuated lines, or packed in small groups or just a tiny and lonely figure, getting lost in the summer bramble and lush soil.'
And one has been seen, by few eyes, away from the light that was slowly gathering at the center and apart from the crowd, shyly watching from the gate of his wooden fort, his castle of gray and white bark, tinged with moss from the many water drops that have fallen, as crystal liquid spheres from beyond. The castle stands away from trodden paths and spirits wave to the glowing countenance of his eyes, seen pale and bleached against the dull and darkened outer wall, tall grassy trees have grown and clover-palms spring up from moisture, at the gate. The summons draws on this one, a kind and noble one, reluctant though and somewhat proud, in his retreat and solitude.
' We have seen them on our way to the gathering. We have seen those who were in hiding, as thieves before the fires to come, watching from behind musty mounds and concealing branches, we have also gazed at those too shy or too occupied with chore and necessity, who could not attend, we have looked as well towards those spirits who heard the shout but had not the calling, giving a salute and rising their head, stepping out of their homes and facing the brightness. We have seen and sensed, from a distance, green ghosts as we were, their warmth and embrace, their giving away unconditioned; and from the foot of the mountain, as the light shower came down, we waited for the future moment, when all would come. '
' I watched amazed, I watched with fear, I watched with silent joy, I watched in wait, I watched with a tear unwept and clean, I watched them file through the leaves, as squirrels drew circles on the tree trunk, unwavering dance, unhindered grace. We watched them pass and could only dream their footsteps away.'
' Out of those far to tell reaches, came a floating island with tall, moss-covered stony faces, hard and beset, yet benevolent, old and new, gathering great numbers of clover-palms in their silent and windy hovering, to grow out of their green beards and curly, tangled seaweed hair. The eyes in those faces were sunken hideouts, their mouths were seen closed in whispering and filled with grass and ladybugs. There were numerous colonies of larvae and myriapods who savored the rich soil that was found near the dangling roots of the island, and even a few small birds were seen circling by as companions. The island was empty of spirits, none have ever found a way to reach it and perhaps that came to pass because the spirit-birds were away or some had to grow back their wings. There are even stories of how this very island traveled through seas and lakes, and some fish can still be found in the remains of corals that now have mingled with the moss and short pine-trees that cover its hills. And there are heroes following it, for it shows the right path in its wake. '
Some wandering spirits I have met on my quest as an official witness of the history but also mundane events of the spirit wood realm have imparted that an island related to the floating island, probably an ancestor, resides in the fine sand bottom of the nearby sea, somewhere close to the shore. And they were told, by a most fortunate onlooker, that a spirit-turtle, with a soft mossy shell and a one leaf clover tail, swims around to a rising corner of this sunny reef that grows so near the water's edge, in hope of one day flying away, taken off by the awakening of the island. Perhaps until that will come into time, her offspring will play and eat in the yellow rich coral or swim and sleep, enveloped by the blankets of moss that cover the base of the rocks and the seabed. I can only imagine and surmise that this young spirit is part of a larger group of spirit-turtles, old and with their huge backs covered with islands of their own, preceded by birds in flight and surrounded by scores of quiet, content fish, and that the underwater island might be the place of their former gathering.
As I went down the line and pieced together stories, it seemed the woods opened up and I could see those two I had found at the beginning, and I started to really see, in spite of my great doubts, where it all has led me all along.
Now, that the fog has lifted from the water, another piece of the emerald puzzle has fallen into place. I can see the leading figure holding a tall staff with a green budding crown atop it, that is still growing under the sun. The wooden staff is alive, it is part of the island, it is the staff made of a sapling taken from the millennium tree, after it had fallen from the sky and has passed into another cycle of growth. His companions, a faithful wood spirit-dog and another young spirit of the wood-kender race ( who just happened to enjoy adventure and the un-traveled road and just happened to pass by and tag along ), loyal as well, but unreliable at times and rarely capable of holding on to a promise, stood still as they had for many a month since they have began following the floating island, with its stone faces on top, looking east and west. They are bringing a whole forest along with them and can just feel, in their bones and chest and in the tingling soles of their feet, that they are close to the core.
There are those who have made it, those who did not, but will, and those who will always be expected home. But time, it is not there at all, for all, and waves, once started, like a ripple pass and spread the word: the iridescent reunion, the one containing all colored shadows gathered into light, has long been set forth. The magical realm is moving, the mountain is tall and its tip holds the diamond, the world is split so that it shall be whole again. Spirits gather and find their rightful place around the hills and slopes and paths and caves and rocky outcrops, at the base of forests and pastures, each with his face and stature, they gather and their closeness ties them together as they wait for the other one, spirit-wood brothers who have not come, not yet. And as they wait, the light turns lightning-bright and hits and splits each shell of knowledge and they all know each other and breathe as a root of the same tree. And the tip of the first leaf breaks the incandescent glow of the mountain's highest peak and grows towards the sky. The woodpeckers will come again, the nightingales shall follow in song, and one human traveler will open his eyes and see that the clouds have cleared away in honor of this reunion.
Since then I started to find spirits in all, they have been always there, waiting, had I eyes to see. I find them as stones and seashells scattered near the shore of the sea or as autumn leaves, early fallen kin of the same wood-spirit kindred. And I raise my eyes to the sun and know and wonder in what I shall find them anew.
The way the world moves, sometimes it is a golden wheel, wrought of light, sometimes a never-ending spiral, from darkness onto light, sometimes a circle that binds you to the promise of your blood, and other times a gathering of darkness, that resembles silence, movement’s lack.
Light trickles as an amber rain, full of shooting stars, gazing in the middle of their flight, flowing through and beyond pitch black emptiness, smolders of heat shine and pour, wood ambers revolve around their inner fire, smoke issues and follows in patterns of grey and dark blue.
Those tall trees are magical in a way, the whole forest is taller than the ones around it, the whole place hints of a hidden magnetism, of an ancient wandering place, of a long ago shelter for warriors of the body and soul. These high trees are old and sturdy, a memory of the spirits that once dwelled around and inside the place they still guard. Though more asleep that awake, the tall trees that you see seem closer than many people, will make you feel rested and safe, will surely outlive your bones and most of all, will look different yet always beautifully fascinating each season, over and over again.
A grand piano will sing a bluish lament, one violin can touch the strings of all that may be deep sky blue, soft evening cyan, crying out emerald blue, from the depths to the surface of all life, airy ether, of the same late sky dome color that precedes black.
Blue is the inherent color of sorrow, sadness can not burn red, sorrow can not turn green, sadness can not become yellow, sorrow can never be rendered in white, sadness will never stay black, sorrow’s only dance trickles blue, in a myriad of strings.
I was taken by the steady path, climbing and descending over grass and leaves, running in good and cloudy times, always following the direction of the sun. I had branches and small streams as road signs, I wandered off the path and back again. I believe I was trying to calm the mind and clear the eyes, I slowly remembered how to breathe, and then, little by little, how to think good thoughts, and even later, not sure precisely when, I wasn’t thinking. The woods were so large, the creatures within a small patch so numerous, the adventures and heroic deeds that those diverse beings were set upon, the difficulties rendered onto their many long travels from one huge city colony to another, their trials and social gatherings overwhelmed my imagination. I was a tiny insect going over the many intricate highways and passes on a minuscule part of vegetation, making my way to the tower with the ever climbing radial ramifications touching the whites in the sky, dreaming to reach the heavy encompassing crust that covered that pounding heart beneath the brown bark. I was a bird in flight, signaling to my friend that was making rounds and surveying part of our realm. I was a bear, polishing and sharpening my claws. I was singing about the bears, the blue and the brown bears.
Someone said that the sky can only be beautiful, never placid, though it be devoid of the embodiment of clouds, it will never repeats its hues, it will resemble the last open space out there, it will shine even after the sun has long departed. The sky can also be red, and of all the colors of the rainbow, blue is just the mood it prefers to be in most of the time it is not troubled.
A passenger mingles throughout the spectrum of light, a passer by bends light rays in its flight from the ending of all things. People come and go, each with a personal world woven from all the colors of the spheres, stretching their existence as well as one might, strangers even to one’s self sometimes, leaving behind the masks of many hues and contradictions.
One figure may stand for a whole universe, yet never is one figure content to always bask alone in the sun. A single silhouette will sing and call over and above the surrounding air, it may sing with heart full joy, it may stand in contemplation and wonderment for a time close to infinity, but will always search for Never Neverland. And that land beyond all colors and contrasts, is full of strangers that may become friends. A lone figure and a lone tree will talk, as the wind brushes both their faces.
White is that color that if one achieves, should not be broken. Winter covers all, blends all colors into forgetfulness, prepares nature, eye and mind, for quiet contemplation. Winter is the season were silence is golden and blue and silver, shining more brightly in the sun, hurting the eye that looks straight into the middle of the white flakes. Winter is the season when you can hear the snow falling, each and every crystal, the season of the great equalizer and frosty breath.
The Dream Makers
And how can my dream be standing pure while I am not steadfast?I thought rebuilding should come easy,for I am made of the same substance as faith is, but do I not have to find itin myself in the first place?Is not all of humanity enlightened somehow,to be able to live their lives without knowing any secret or holding any key?Do not speak of world hunger while your food rots away in your house,do not hope for univesal lasting peace when every day you live is an inner strife.You want to feel one with the oneness but are not one inside?Then how do you seek if not sure of finding and unscared of never finding?How do I see if all i think about are my own walls i build every morning?
A small part of me still knows to taste beauty, a tiny crystal yet holds true vision.Hurt, despair, what part is there inside that doesn't let me give up? How can I finally admit that, were it on my own, i would have blackened my heart and hands so many times untill now? Where is the wind taking the view that slips inside on moonless nights,when i still try and search for lost suns in the city's fog?
To rebuild, to rebuild - I wishpered to myself, to rebuild body and soul so I could bare my own dreams, I need a lightning core, constant as the alphabet, shining as compassion does, unwielding to fleeting desires and moods, concious of its burning, I needmy song to withstand the wild wild sea as my dream moves through the waves, smiling from horizon to horizon, though those far lines of earth-sky be empty and the road with no one in sight.
Even rocks dream, though I might not believe it myself, I say it, I repeat it, though this is not the way to belief. Why do I need to believe so much in anything, why indeed?
The last cat will die someday and we shall all be free, someone said. When I die, you who are close to me will remember my face and essence, your friends and kids will remember yours, then the sun will swallow all the linked chains that laughed and saw and tried overthe years and it will all be to dust here, but elsewhere, a cat would have escaped on some high-hoped spaceship and would remember what she had for a family. And when that cat will meet time's end on a fist of rock in the stillness so black, somewhere, the footprintwill remain and a different sun will look upon it, for, why not, in this story stars also dream. When that star fades there will be another and yet another touched by that light. What is the last cat? Should I call it the last stand of the dust, the last fall of all dreams? Are dreamsnot beautifull because they eventually end, oh, someone said that too I guess. Why does death blind me of the life given, why can't I see freedom in the same teapot with the end of all beings? I always wished the last cat was immortal, as I implacably and foolishly wish that for myself, and could not see that the last thing which stepped in the way was death. For without the unknown, what are we, what is there left?
Though I could only fight on and didn't build my dream back, within changing shadows and too little light, still, do not rule me out with the passing of winter, I will be here to fight in my own way, should the last cat remember me, next spring comming.
For you, the people sharing the Last Cat, make me not think of my self sometimes.
A daydreamer’s story
Help us stand before the sun.
[...]Sometimes I have the necessary energy and intension to change my eyes and see old people bearing their own childhood’s eyes. Then the features of the face follow this transformation and I have the feeling that so little time has actually passed for them, no matter the multitude of experiences and surprises. Wouldn’t it be a well deserved wonder to be born old and die young?[...]
[...]No child avoided my look, when I was hungry for human eyes, but more than that, most have the wit and curiosity to seek it. Those eternal wanderers would never wage war. Perhaps they are more than beyond good and evil; they represent more than a clear slate to be written upon by perception and happenstance. You could never understand a child if you never lived like that after you abandoned the free, small things – the true gifts of the world, even if you had your own[...]
[...]Reach for the beauty and base desire that resides in you. Surprise yourself with your questions, never quench as a flame and never abandon the search, even if all around you did. Never forsake the quest, even if you are laughed at, or nothing of it is familiar to the people you live with. Though the search may be bitter, and the beating and the reward seem to switch places often enough, hang on to your belief. If desperate, I could only give advice I never followed – let go… and take hold[...]
[...]Don’t be in a hurry and wish this sad empty moment away. It will pass as surely as you would want your joyous times to last so much longer; still I wouldn’t go as far as collecting my precious moments for future use or old age. I wish I didn’t, anyway. If you could ring that clear voice of one mind, scatter the clouds of endless light play between doubt and belief, you might find that you are not an odd assembly of memories, a twisted knot of perception who finds his desired ease in dreams[...]
[...]Few people notice him. His life was just a bramble of roads upon which he tried to exert control. If life dealt him unexpected cards he cheated in his mind, it was easy enough. The desired way, fixed and sufficient, the only satisfying goal, that’s all that he wanted, that’s the only thing that fit, the only one that could have been destined. And woe, he was sound in his own way, wanting to forge his destiny out of reach of the impending, ever watchful, never caring stars[...]
[...]No answer came from the stars yet. The end became boring by being unavoidable, like the strike of luck you know to have just ended. Reality became something tangible, for it was inflexible, the fixed pole made the repetition of his own thoughts and ways faster. There were no skies left for his wishes. No lifetime was long enough, and mystery was no longer needed. He was so thirsty[...]
[...]I blow the dust from the abysses and crevasses I inhabit, hollow out the mist from above the vast openings. I tidy up my small room, this hour I have several constellations invited, we shall laugh at those mystery chasers and theory breakers and reforgerers of laws. We plan to go further so you can not ask what we are after. You won’t find the need to argue or balance the fruit in your mind. Your eyes will smile briefly, but it will be enough to light the room and chase away my stars. So uplit and slightly hollow became the room, I guess a light melancholy could ball me over, so I’d better invite you in, my unknown friend[...]
[...]Autumn is here, I’m not reluctant to speak, even though I haven’t actually met someone in a long while. My eyes are still good, taking in all the colors, watching as they wane from one hue to another. I can’t say I am content, but it still fills me up with a tingle to watch the shadows strike the earth at sunrise and sunset. Sometimes I sing and hum, not only for my own ears but for all the life around me. Long ago I realized I couldn’t keep track of time[...]
[...]Why is it so hard after so many years, to show others who you really are? You’d age a lot less and would have a chance to give, for a change. It would be like finally listening to what the other has to say, filling all the wells to the brim and inviting your friends to drink. Why is it so hard to be a truth speaker without being embarrassed, or offending, or hiding, better yet. If you show yourself you’ll get closer to that G*d you’re searching for or have given up as missing. You know, out there, there must be some beings that do this at a larger scale, what sense of honor must they have, what common sense. By choosing the harder, twisted way, what do so many of us think they shall gain?[...]
[...]Someone wrote: ‘They were all heroes, in spite of themselves ‘. I would have to apply this to the nameless ones. I guess most heroes are not conscious of their attributes and perhaps some of them would not, could not live otherwise; a fact which doesn’t diminish any of the choices they have made. Heroes are, by my standards, if I must have any, the sanest members of our society. Just don’t pinpoint a type of character when you hear the term ‘hero’[...]
[...]We are limited by our eyes, and our eyes are limited in turn by our mind. If we all wore masks, how beautiful and focused our eyes would be; if our faces looked the same, only looks could tell tales. It would be more difficult to talk of one’s beauty or deformity if before you stood his aura of translucent filaments. The hands stand for the matrix of all living beings and in particular, human kind; we are obviously more alike than we wished, and intertwined by space and time. Those filaments are omnipresent and all signals meet in this vast network, one’s passing may herald someone else’s coming. The five fingered race may someday set but this radiance will find other forms[...]
[...]What comes from inside is stronger than any religion or word, any family root, any drug or invention of mankind. Make of your laughter and cries allies, reach for the sacred moment. Any two humans could go further than their words would carry them, how do you know when to stop in your belief, relight the spark, for two can make the light grow where one was alone in his dreams. Look the other in the eye and let whatever you feel expand, don’t stand in front of the wind of seeing that will blow over you. Any two people in the world are close, yet do not believe it[...]
[...]I leap, levitate, give momentum to my flight, quiver, tremble and ignite with an impulse, I escaped through the window, traveled the hills from one of my memories, ran to the same things that mean the world to me, still I see landscapes I have never seen before, travel through places I never heard of, how well it is all placed, how many days have I lived there, why should you honestly believe it’s not your second life, your life could be a dream and death the dreamless sleep, so I hope one time two people would meet there and by their own accord fly and postpone waking up, how many sunsets could you save, how many could you offer your body, weak and pressed by laws and thermodynamic arrows and hidden immortals and such, how much freedom to your self, to be closer to the lightness of the leaves and birds that you see in your wake. To be a traveler in your dreams and one day find a companion there, I would not need to come back[...]
[...]This forest has no seasons, just bright flows jutting from the ground. It snows with pulsating lights here, rains with tiny comets. If you walk around on a starry night, you would saw it as perfectly natural, would not notice the absence of trees and grass and rock, not even of your thoughts.
[...]Below the dark sky which reveals the emptiness, beset with golden coiled clouds, stretches a glowing white path, cut out of stone. It is an underground world whose shadows speak of gold and brass patterns, whose leaves leave fractal models on the ground. The path goes on and on, from one hill to another, carrying you, the visitor. You can wander off the path through the bleak, dense forest and its odd flowers, or just keep going, taking one of the few stars as reference. It’s a lonely road, and perhaps it’s the strangeness that compels you to look for a companion along side it, or maybe it’s something from inside that stirs at the view of all those bare stones, fit for telling a story. It’s the sharing of the adventure that counts to you, after all. And it would be for the better if the path were endless, whatever it may bring[...]
[...]One time I ran so fast on the path that gravity overtook me and I fell over. Sometimes I just stop in the middle of it and look around, having the feeling that it’s pointless to continue or seeing things for that ‘first time’. The path may be a stream or a loop or barely a slice of time for all I care, perhaps the ending is unimportant in relationship with the road. Still, one thing can not escape my mind and give it rest; that a path carries with it a taste of a personal destiny and myth. To walk the path as the traveler, how can I wear the cloak of the witness, knowing this?[...]
[...]Someone said that people don’t look at the sky anymore. I guess that living in a city makes the chances even slimmer. So I advise you to stop in the middle of your way and look up. Or perhaps, if that doesn’t wash anything over you, press your fingers hard over your ears. The resulting silence is not artificial, but quite welcome, I should say. I know, I do those things so seldom[...]
[...]A cold world, of crystal trees and plants, translucent flowers and blades of grass. All flowing, overlapping, a myriad dance of shadows and highlights. You can lay on your back amidst them, the galaxies are so close now, how many tides of beings are out there, starting over and over, you wander, as you can’t get enough of the sky. Because the information is boundless, you can be swept up in your perception and taken far away on strings of thought until you can no longer think but only dream. I hope this goes further. I, for one, could never get enough[...]
[...]We woke up and were far away from any living thing but from ourselves and this was frightening so we did the first thing we could, we built shelters, first for need, then for glory, afterwards for locking ourselves in. We found that we were good at building walls and that perhaps only through separation we could gain peace. But peace is not something to find but to carry, and even if the citadel has only an oasis, still we can not gather around it[...]
[...]I do not want to warn you to stay away from the draught found in the eyes of the people that live in those cities, someone else did before me. I only advise you to put on thick soils to that pair of shoes, for you will tread hard and long and no glitter will lure you. But when and if it does, the smile will take you by surprise, much looked for as it was. And if you ever find that oasis where people give away water for free, be sure to tell me, for a happy reunion[...]
[...]To go for a ride in your own mind and levitate through the room in your dreams. For your brain it is the same. A great thinker said that reality is the ruin of a fairytale. Through thick fog shiny insects escape the conformity of a perfectly ordered universe. They create new worlds by themselves, a tiny eon hidden in the passing of a moment. I guess no tale could be endless, no hero may avoid death and that this naturally gives the sweet and bitter, divides the coin. But when you walk through this span of marvels you’re just here for the spin[...]
[...]A fairy tale is more than an unclear, desirable memory of your youth and it is not found only in old men’s ramblings. It walks with you and depends on how much life you give away. It is more than a game or a view into another world, it is no fable or virtual reality but a working of your inner world and the worlds of others. For no matter how many unique fairytales, the mist binds them in its static flow. If we could only float more from one to another…[...]
[...]All over the ocean there are islands that serve as shelters to the traveling birds. This island offers no source of food or comfortable place to rest. However, each time the sun sets or rises, the rainbow’s colours pass through the gathered crystals, giving life to the stone encircling, painting the waves with warm gleams. The birds actually appreciate the spectacle drawn by the painter; they prove to have more sense than most people[...]
[...]Many of us like to entertain the foolish conviction that we know better than anyone what set of cards should have been given to us. Actually, nor we or anyone else can boast that claim. Where would all the surprises go to? I try to think thus when the soil on which I stand seems too rough, or the life upon it scattered and unconnected. I sure hope that those pebbles cut into my skin so I could have my lot of wonders later, I think, stumbling[...]
[...]I want no forest to hind in. No scheming mind. I would trade intelligence for pureness, if that came as an alternative. A candle’s shadow, wavering but unmistakable to all the lights of the sports arena, splitting the person and leaving a trail of fake choices behind. Only the present can be cleaned up, without thinking of the future[...]
[...]' Remembrance is eternity ' – just don’t write it on your tombstone. I try to tell myself stories so I can fall asleep. Seventy times or so the leaves turn to rust, and then you never know you’ve ever been. I fall into my dreams of tall spires, wizards and fair ladies and each saving the world in turn. How can I ever give up something that is part of me? The old sun is out there, and I still have things to do here.
All Images and Texts by Daniel Munteanu are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Romania License.