Timespotting

In the beginning there was...a word. A single one. And then others follow, gather around, populate a list. More like a firework blast, an explosion. The world is reborn with every beginning world, it dawns through one spark. Just like time. Or the notion of timeliness. So many ideas float around it, it's a gravitational movement that attracts many idea-satellites. They all float in a latent pre-ordering state, ready to leave the indefinite chaos when I eventually sift and let them lay in my writing sheet. I could cling to any of them, but which one?Seems like time is subject to my mood, to my choices; which define us.
...................................................................................................................... 

Then there's the moment with its folded particles that I'd like to separate and isolate and then describe each side, let it fall into words. However, the uniqueness that a moment encapsulates fails to reveal to me yet. It lingers there for a second and then it silently slips away; a sour trickery. I know I've lived it, but where did it go?why does it have to be so furtive and stealthily leave  the realm of words?My realm of words. And when I say words, I mean my own universe that I build on words as the basic raw unit of expression. It's clear to me that I need to polish that wordiness but then again I'd have to accelerate a change of my spirit which I seriously doubt  I am able able to do, especially according to my wants. For if it's my will that establishes my fluid expression it is a rather slow, gradual process that evolves in me but somehow separate from me, as if an autonomous entity developing on its own. It can be a monstrous sight that I come to think of it. The more I think, the more I feel I'm not writing about time in itself at this point, but certainly about how my something else grows in time.

 Let's call time our collateral victim. Poor Time, it's got no real input into this equation, but to witness the changes occurring. However, time and my perception of the moment live in perfect symbiosis, they intertwine forming a dizzying structure so that it makes it hard to separate them, to dissect them in order to extract their role as if carefully sitting it on a nicely ordered shelf. But now, my world is still cloudy, I'm trying hard to chase that haze away and let the light in. Volition is the first step. Followed by my first-rate illusion of figuring myself out.

Halloweenification

Yes, I'm right at the heart of the traditional Halloween celebration which is why I chose to write about... The little ones will be ringing our bells leaving no choice but to trick or to treat. Guessing the final option shouldn't be such a difficult task. Behind the boohoos and the spookiness that comes along, Halloween is a celebration of the mask, of the carnival. It's the perfect time to slide yourself under the costume you've always thought about, you can re-create yourself and embrace the features of a supposedly but not necessarily frightening image. Frankenstein could easily greet us, which is great by the way, we can actually see a smiley or laughing Frankenstein. Or not really. Maybe catch a glimpse of a sad clown instead.

At any rate, there seems to be an ongoing exchange of features between the mask and its bearer. Which brings up the following issue: are we really turning into Frankenstein or does Frankenstein become more humanly than he's ever been before? It is pretty fascinanting how we allow characters from the imaginary, which is undoubtedbly part of our unconscious, come to surface, maybe in an attempt to tame down that secret, less accessible part of ourselves. Humanity doesn't have many options in front of the unknown, in front of the giant universe, in front of the giant strangeness that we're striving to catch in words...or in Halloween costumes. Taming down. Yes, that's my take on the whole issue. Ridiculing and laughling at a supposedly frightening symbol helps the psyche surpass the fear of the unknown and the apprehension for the dreadful imagery surrounding our cultures.

Little is known nowadays about the connection between Halloween masks and ancient beliefs as this custom is most certainly closely related to a taming whose meaning has been long lost in the mist of history. Which makes the main reason why every sacred act is encrypted in symbolic manifestation. It is the symbol that preserves the meaning in the most simple ways, but if the meaning behind is slowly fading the whole act turns into nothing but a mere automatic, empty representation, suiting entertaining purposes at its best. Just like fairytales. They use symbol as a meaning preservation mode. Most of them carry a deep message that is meant to be decoded by the witty ones. So there you go Halloween, enchant us with your cryptic symbols!

Afternoon Crumbs

It's like a thirst, a most strange longing for something. It's an internal hunger for an undefined element. Like maybe taking a dive into someone else's thoughts. Maybe dare to jump and take the plunge into your own waters. Into the infinite strangeness of the self. I watch the woods fret under the incredibly calm summer breeze and a gentle movement inside of me whispers somethings in a cryptic language. It's as if I attempt to transgress my own deafness, my own inability to grab that whisper. But I listen to it and I can almost hear it and it warms my heart in the mysterious ways. Yes, it's the cool of the evening and trees and flowers take on an orange sunsety glow before the brightest star slowly glides into its habitual retreating motions. And it is this kind of moments that unfold the untold story of humankind from the very beginning up to the present times. It's all there in that seemingly small bit of the day. Birth, love, death, whispers in the cool of the evening. A day and the humankind.

P.S.:On Forget-You-Nots

Fall in itself is not of much help. In fact, falling leaves, carelessly carried away by the wind awake in me that tenderness for you. I can see you through the falling leaves, I can see you tenderly like you are. And it all stands like a testimony against my pledge for forgetting. It is as if nature silently plans to tear me apart, to disrupt the silence I've been trying to install over you.


Where do I go wrong? Is it the sun, or the gentle light of the moon, invading my room uninvited every night. They're all contriving to silently speak of you, to carry your name against all odds. So I feel like a fragile willow in the wind, bending under the wind of memory. Everyday. Living under the routine of remembrance. Sort of an aggravating state of the mind that I find it hard to reconcile with. My sense and sensibility at odds, no evens to fit in for a change. I'm willing to make them even, to give an utterance to an oppressing silence that I had decided not to voice before. Second thoughts might be an option after all. I'm a kaleidoscope of states; the tenderness I get when pieces of nature spell your name; followed by the feeling that I have for you and that I can but acknowledge; and then the sour denial, for I'm holding on to the realm of sense still; even more, how much I loathe myself for my inconsistency, for my inability to keep a straight line.


All those intricacies that shamelessly form, that eventually make up a complex of my states seem to have a personality of their own, like a woman wishing to have a room of her own where the pen could flow freely on paper guided by her trembling hand. I wish I could chase the thought of away, you are the disrupting thought. Yes, I keep chasing you away, but you have your own ways, of stubbornly returning to haunt me, to destroy the frailty of my stillness and then mercilessly leave.

And then I try to embrace forgetting in attempt to be in the rights, but what standards decide "right " or "wrong" anymore?I am entitled to make judgements of the kind?The proportions of sense and sensibility invested in this judgement stand on moving sands. My own faltering, my own vacillations make me want to turn my back to that frightening scale that supposedly sets the standard. I'm undoubtedly under one certainty: I'm not to judge those proportions because I'd have a take a honest look at myself, at the massive emotional structure I possess and whose complexity I successfully fail to grasp. I can't throw myself in a mad quest inside that maze, I'm not prepared to meet the Minotaur yet.

Abridged Diary of an Emailer

So I happen to sit down in front of the computer doing a routine-like thing: getting ready to email you. I open my emailing account and hit "Compose". For some reason, I am overwhelmed with revulsion and frustration. I am mad at myself. Why can't I just start typing like I always do?I waited all day long to get home and email you. It's not about you, the generic "you" doesn't designate a person in particular, but the "means" of comunication that's making me frustrated. I just don't feel like getting myself together, I just can't gather my thoughts of the shelves of my mind and heart and let them first rest on the keyboard before they turn into printing letters in "Compose" area. There's something restrictive about that rectangular space that makes me uneasy. It just seems like this small space lacks the air I need to put down some thoughts, scattered around on the shelves of my mind. If I'd be sitting outside in the open air, I could probably start typing instantly if trees, bushes or the sky would allow me to overtype. Maybe technology will make that come true one. But for now, I have to get back to the cruel reality of my email page that I happen to deeply loathe. I stare at the blank page in front of me and the page gives me a stale stare back. None of my affection or thoughts are there, on a barren empty space so I just decide I'm putting off the whole mission. Or just quit emailing. Unlikely though in this age. Uttering it is though just a way of enumerating choices, though.