I owe life an apology. I am not sure if it would indulge an explanation?
Here is our life.
It’s analogous with our heartbeat.
It’s reliable, dependable and ready for anything every day.
But we are not.
Caught up in who knows how many schemes that whirl around in our head, do we give thought to life at all? We live life and accept it as necessary, abstract, but not really like this (magic) force of energy or a separate entity who/that actually has something to say for our benefit?
Are we the hedonistically narcissticating kind, the soul of the middle or grovelling the survival path? Be honest. It doesn’t matter but it makes you think. And while thinking :
When —, really —, do I e v e r listen to life? If life goes by the name of Google or Wiki, then yes, quite often. ...and maybe life is knowledge and data (too)? ...and maybe life is me without the I, but the us? ...but then, along came I... ...and my confident, convinced action drowned any voice of caution or direction.
Life, this weird inexplicable thing that keeps (me) going come what may.
Is life perhaps G_od unvenerated?
We use life like a wheelbarrow.
It’s there; it’s convenient; it makes life easier and you can dump anything into it.
Case of beers, junk and yuck stuff.
Occasionally we clean it up with a hose only to let it rust in a corner and then moan when the wheel squeals after weeks of neglect.
Wtf are we doing with life?
It seems there is life and then there is us.
Split existentiality in a race with split personality.
Initially, we are homogenized, but then, along comes the mind and drives a wedge to create the famous lifelong schizo-split, the beginning of the ‘don’t tell me, I will tell you’ kind of relationship.
“I, the great sage are (because I am many in my head) now in charge.”
Often, even if not verbalised this bluntly means:
“f…off life, there is more important stuff in my life.”
Another puff, shroom, swig or prick or whatever shit.
Life’s now become like a car.
It’s inconceivable that a wheel might be flat one day and we should become stranded.
“Where is the spare?
OmG. Call 911.”
“911, what is your emergency?” “My wheel is gone.” “Your wheel Sir/Ma’am, —?—.” “Fkcu yes my wheel, damn!” “Sir/Ma’am we are not roadside assistance.” “The wheel is my life.” “Oh, uhh, hold on please…”
A life later… as soon as that wheel is back, Voilà, ta-da, lots of smoke, full steam and ‘mindfully’ ahead.
Now life has become that pickup truck.
Big load bed and serious oomph between the …, oo-err, under the bonnet.
The wheels are now supergrabbers, they’re all on but sometime later you run out of gas.
Found deadish on the road going nowhere, load and all, and no life.
Now what? Stuck again?
I know I owe life an apology, badly, and then, as if scripted, I ask it the question:
"Life, what do you suggest right now?"
If I’d turn down my noise, I might just hear its voice.
*It’s been three years since I wrote the book ‘Intercourse with Life’.
– Seriously, I also got distracted in noise.
Since I was young
I am on the run
Now, more old,
I am still running,
so I am told
I ran away from that,
that ran towards me
Upon reflection, I can see
how I was getting lost
in loneliness and fear
and rejecting even that,
that was dear
Running is my freedom
from the prison of my fate,
and the buried past
which keeps a live debate
and reminds of something
which stayed behind
Now I speed along malaligned
Running is my surname
Loss and pain, a restless brain,
a song in minor
with a sad refrain
Sometimes a tear in private
often I am running with disquiet
A constant fear to be too late
Imagine dreams thus escape?
The death of me is any wait
Therefore, night and day
I follow and obey
Running is my way,
bluffing also is okay
I run even though
my running days are done
some say it looks like tumbling now
’cause all my pose is gone
The further that I disappear
the happier I be, — I think
But, there are teardrops in my ink
as happiness runs too,
from the one who runs
Running, — my escape
towards a destination called ‘Away’
Tumbling, a persuasive way
to stay and not forsake
*Picture credit: The Emoji Movie
Life is about sitting on an egg, — partially.
When you’re sitting on top of an egg,
– and be honest, I think we are all trying to hatch something, –
and nothing happens for too long,
there is something wrong with the egg you’re sitting on.
Nothing is wrong with you, — of course not.
You did your time and probably more than was necessary.
No bird sits on an egg longer than they intrinsically know they have to, and neither should we.
If you want to bring something about:
change your circumstance, change your beingness.
If nothing happens,
get off and find another egg.
If you water a seed or seedling and it doesn’t grow,
you don’t continue indefinitely, do you?
There must be a benefit; else, what are you doing it for?
Maybe herein lies the problem:
We are the egg and the hen.
Between being both we get side-tracked.
We hen around when we should also egg around.
And both hen and egg have a best before date too.
Or, perhaps our egg got swapped while we were inattentive or in cloud-cuckoo-land. We might be sitting on a dinosaur egg that takes epochs to hatch,
and we only have a human lifetime.
Another more sinister reason could be that there is no egg for us. A hiccup in nature, an oversight, or perhaps a deliberate message of:
“You are wasting your time here, you should be somewhere else, sorry (hu)man, internal error, – reboot.”
I don’t think sitting on an egg is that much fun,
especially when the dream of what that egg was supposed to become has lost its verve.
In the process of incubation and brooding, you have probably also attracted a severe bout of eggshaustion.
Rest is advised but time is limited because it is now already ‘time minus one egg’.
Time and eggs clearly have some agreement.
Maybe ten time units are one egg unit, or who knows?
And, you are entering into major guesswork as to how many time and egg units are available to you.
At this stage of disillusionment with reality and eggs, you might want to run away to an island and just hangout and relax.
When that escape starts feeling like another egg, is it now the right egg? There’s nobody really around that could answer that question. Eggvisors are few and far between, if not entirely mythical. And, other islanders egging it out don’t strike you as the right reference model.
It is not inconceivable that at this moment you might decide,
“WTF, I’ll just grab an egg that looks nice and sit on it and see.”
The point is that when that first egg doesn’t hatch
and we finally decide to move on to another egg,
unless some inbuilt direction finder kicks in
and sets our compass pointing north again in our life,
we could become abandoned eggs or hens without a head.
Now, the second (nth) time around,
we have to apply extra amped-up effort and employ every ounce of skill and wisdom to bring our life together and make sense of it,
— and not accept a watered-down make-believe or a shortlived fake brochure version, —
so we can find that satisfaction which is inherent when our right egg hatches.
like watered down milk…
– indifferently choreographed between white and grey
– tasting like soup with too much thickener and too little salt scooped from a burned pot
– conducted by a metronome seesaw clock stuck on one hour for half the day,
and then suddenly nothing happens, again, and it’s evening
of night aeons and darkness’s conquests and shadowy ghosts infesting my mind
– preserving its light in a heart-locket necklace in memoriam
– where Nothing sticks like clueless glitter lost on my forehead
– when angels were sought and found only in thought but never caught
– of skulls and crossbones destabilising sanity with orchestral irrationality
of X-rays beaming through my skeleton ignoring my transient flesh in their own celebration of reflection…
– where demons dismember my heart and grill the tendrils of my feelings
– of ego-tripping maniacs grinding me to dust with their mortar and pestle rhetoric
– when my ashes become the spice of the devil’s lust,
– when ‘burn his soul’ is chanted by the karmic choir at the tortured gates of reincarnation,
and the cosmic eraser is bigger than any of my dreams
A day where…
Angst is the fire and defiance the air…
– blood is the drug knocked back with a double shot of death
– the soil that I stand on cries louder than hell pronged on a pitchfork
– I am misplaced like a bee on the sea
– I am like a butterfly squashed in the cooler grill of an abandoned racing car
that none of us asked to be part of…
because it perforates and slices with its shrapnel,
it blinds and dumbs the mind with chaos,
it breaks every ethic and moral and belief,
fatally demanding life and remuneration through recurring vengeance,
this day of the feasting vultures of dismay
Cloudman why are you waving at me?
Is there something I don’t see?
I am nothing
I am clueless
I am lost
No cheque in the post
Fruitless attempts to summit my life, oh yes
Contempt with insanity’s grin
Decades have rolled on
Overgrown now the paths I once ventured
Blinded and stuck on some, — far too long
Sometimes it really feels that I’m done
Now, time is called the ‘aftermath’
That little left should be made to last
Create the antecedent of tomorrow
Leave out today’s horror,
relegate that to the past
Nothing: is all that matters
Clueless: the more the better
Lost: is the prize not the cost
I lay out there drifting weightlessly somewhere in empty space surrounded by the darkness of the universe Floating on nothing Lost in nothing I and my thoughts Unimaginably alone, — solely Unsad, content, clueless Too distant even to the nearest star Immersed in timelessness About 1:53 am in the feel The past an ashen memory No smoldering feelings I see my future winding through an echoing passage tiled with absorbing pictures turned into movies They distract consistently I am confronted with a view at the end A lookout point into future space, unlike anything I could ever conceive Visible is an indeterminately gigantic, colorful, spoked wheel of dimensions At the hub, where all dimensions meet: the bright center of fertility The source of anything, known also as nothing Close together here unfathomably far apart further out It is all so clear now: In order to keep on floating, I must stay lost and I must stay in a state of not-knowingness That is pure freedom, unbound from existence My only way back to source From this virgin source of nothing I can follow any spoke leading to any dimension Each dimension is another universe Probably entirely unimaginable from our reality As I engage thus I become un-lost in my new knowingness Now I am bound again I don't drift towards a new future I am the new future ...soon to become the newest past and be lost and clueless once more Drifting, floating, clueless, lost in nothing Towards a new future
Impassioned and dreamy to live,
the one-way lane to bliss
Drudgery and mundanity boredom gives
Failure be a toxic recipe
Mute, the soul seeks therapy
In passion lies life’s ecstasy
But what do you do if your passion doesn’t get you to that bliss?
You’ve immersed yourself in playing music, enjoyed every note, and you clearly don’t have it.
You write, you come alive, and you are mediocre at best, — on an inspired day.
You are painting and your art fulfills you like nothing else, and it doesn’t raise an eyebrow, least of all sell.
You do stuff that captivates and absorbs you, that you love, but never is there a financial reward or even a pat on the back.
You follow your passion constantly but you can’t make a living.
The search for a passionate solution is consuming you.
You are not level headed and will never be, — so help you gee oh dee.
You start doubting passion.
Something has to work, — desperately by now, and intrinsically you know it can only work if passion is present, yet it doesn’t happen.
You have more than one passion, oh definitely yes.
You are an appasionata or an appasionato.
You can’t find the One thing that tops them all.
Maybe you do but for whatever reason, you have to find the next best.
Can there ever be a next best? Will passion tolerate being ordered, sorted, prioritized, delayed?
You think you know what your passion is and where it lies, but, you also think you don’t.
Sometimes you even think: “What is passion? What am I passionate about?”
You back off because your passion is too far fetched. It surpasses even your belief with its imaginative enactment.
You question if passion is maybe the devils trick to lure you into his quarters and then again you think it’s a God given gift.
You ponder the idea that it’s too late to follow your passion.
Disillusion and disappointment mount as passion eludes you. Resigned, life becomes dull and thoughts start flirting with a philosophical question.
You always thought that passion was the only real certainty worth pursuing and now you are the laughing stock of all your ghosts.
Are you the doomed one?
Are you the example that others use to point out the senselessness of trying to follow one’s passion(s) instead of doing something ‘real’?
Should one perhaps pair one’s passion ‘to do something’ with one’s fascination ‘of something’? Could the search then be finally over?
amongst all the noise we create,
we don’t hear the divine music within.
Pastel on cardboard created by Norwegian Expressionist artist Edvard Munch 1895: was sold for nearly US$120 million, at Sotheby’s, in 2012.
I wail and scream. I howl
I bleed and I implore
Desperate cries distort my lips
Torn into a grimace
fearful open the visage
Clueless and lost I am
Anguish is upon my soul
Dark wrinkles now remain
where tears in streams
once hoped in vain
A devilish nightmare
horrible and mean,
from inside my ulcerating stomach
and my flailing heart,
forced its shadow onto my scene
Warning me, ‘beware’
A thousand cellars deep in agony,
dank with acid, bile, and irony
I bang my head and bite my nails
My soul from sorrow is impaled
and my spirit poison has inhaled
wishing for the comfort in the grave
Eyes in white rage ajar
now burned out,
once upon a time two sunny stars
My fists are clenched,
spiked with ragged bony hands
stabbing aimlessly at burned out plans
I once knew another side of this fence
helpless windmills are my arms
Harsh and vile the words accusingly escape
Hear me whoever and whatever you may be:
You are fearsome, belligerent, debilitating,
uncompromising, ruthless and emetic
I am on a vertex uncontrollably forlorn
Sickeningly, rhymeless, unpoetic
Pushed too far, beyond repair I’m harmed
Disappointed, disillusioned, hurting bad
Events heaped upon me that made me crying sad
Life’s definition –
amongst buried papers, dogmas, egos
and coated in red tape:
An endless suffering caravan of greed and hate
Controlled by law enforced by society
I scream some more
It is too late
Piety, sobriety, and deity, notorious dubiety
I scream again, I scream
I tell the universe I’m sore
Sick of all the hell, right to the core
Liberate me, bring about a change
Never will I accept some fate
Turnaround my life
I still believe it can be done somehow
But scream I must
Before I settle into dust
and blow away,
Scream, scream, scream in pain