expressions

i lied to you. i did. i was not working hard to forget you, i was working hard to forget me. months later i get on a jet needing distance. at the door to my flat am reminded of what i keep leaving behind. i keep forgetting me, and then i forget that i forgot, and work even harder to just forget: me.

it is a mad cat. i wanted a horse and ended up with a cat. i pick it up, and we go to the balcony. i squint and can not see. i feel it purring snug in my arms.

it was night. the freaking cat does not forget me. each and every time, i leave it behind. i stay away for months on end. the cat does not forget and each and every time, it is a ritual. it loves the warmth, any warmth, even my warmth; it purrs and purrs. i watch across the city at my feet. it is just the cat that does not forget me. high above the crowds, in the night, on a balcony, the cat and me, we forget.

you reminded me of existence. you reminded me of being human. you reminded me that i had left the cat. the cat has not been left alone. the cat does not care about my presence in the flat. the cat does not care, it purrs.

mended

It has been a while since we last sat by the fire and had a good chat. It has been a while since I wondered along the river Thames and felt nothing at all besides the emptiness of the street and the coldness of the blood in my veins. It has been a while since I confessed my perversions without saying a word. It has been a while since I wrote while thinking of you. It has been a while since I wrote you a letter. It has been a while since we have caressed each others egos. It has been a while since I felt the thirst that your presence inspires.

i think. sometimes. maybe. all i need is the smallest of all gestures, and then i am calm again. you show up in the remotest corner of my horizon, you are peace. oh, i do not understand this, and i am delighted in my lack of understanding. would we be able to access solitude and silence in the nurturing arms of each other's respect?

Now i remember the cold blood in my veins. it's summer, it rains. I walk barefoot out on the bare stones and the Thames is far away. You continue to be my muse. I continue to be the autistic being. I am wrapped by that other public persona who embraced solitude. We are in each other's arms. We never left each other's cradle.

Illusion, delusion and denial return and I tell myself that I am mended. I tell myself all the lies in the world, and on rare occasions I  believe one or the other. Those lies that I tell myself and believe in, they are opium. They make me feel good in the oblivion of no memories and no past. I am in love with no memories. I am tormented by the recollection of the gems and their sparkle that blinds my eyes.

I hear thunder out over our village. I listen to the rain splattering on the roof. I hear the water murmuring all over the yard. The stones are wet. I walk on the stones. I walk under the rain and dance. Just dance. Just forget. My autism has me locked inside, unexplained, unrestrained, preordained, self-contained. Not broken.

 

change

change is good

i return to the past

it is stale

it is dusty

 

about you and me

we have no past

we have no future

 

change; no future

 

you go figure

today

 

 

drunk

after all of it, i am just drunk. i never told you that there was another. i ran from his arms into yours. i told you sweet little lies. i schemed drama and acted in tragedy. i never told you that i could not be with what the other offered. i never told you about the other's nobility.

i never told you.

i never told you about the origins of the story that i wrote. i told you fabulous little stories, fables. my imagination runs unbound, and my perversion cannot be grasped. you fell into all of it, and i almost fell with it all.

i do not understand

it is strange to me that you would come back in the middle of the night when i had just returned home. i was not expecting you. i was working hard to forget you.
you returned last night. you returned when i had given up on you. you were there and you did not dare speaking the words. i saw your face and wondered if that person could be you. i did not want it to be you, but you were not it, you were there, you were present, and you had returned.
i am not sure that i know how to accept you in my life.
this time, now that you have returned, all that i know is that it is not important to me. it seems important to you. i do not want promises. i do not want apologies. i do not even want you. i accept. i do not understand. i accept that i do not understand. and i do not understand you.

reflection

you are the fantastic adventure. i am the fantastic adventure. we were born restless. you and i. you and i were born in a state of entanglement. i know your fear, i know your pain. we touched, we felt it.

there is a next chapter in our book. the pages are turning. change. we both know it.

noise...

just noise. i had my doubts. i asked. how is it really. i asked. it is tough, he said. he said it, it is tough. then he asked, he really asked. he asked the right question. he asked, what would i do if i found him. i think that he wants to be found, he thought that the other wants to be found. i think he is afraid. but what would i do. what would i do if i found him? i was stumped, totally stumped. what would i do?

i have no wrath. i have seen the pretty pictures. the pictures are pretty. i am not impressed by pretty pictures. i had a dream last night again, again the man's face shows up. the crystal wall is still there.

there is a picture hanging on the wall. i met the painter of that picture today at lunch. i overheard some conversations. i sat in the office of my buddy. i walked across the hall with determination. i thought of her face. i thought of her contained face, the smooth skin. i saw the vibrancy that contained emotion renders. i thought of the last line in his poem. i thought of my last line.

doing nothing is action.

freedom

there are times when we cut the strings

there are times when we run away

there are times when we leave

there are times when we do not return

there are times when we mourn

there are times when we search

there are times when we regret

there are times when we return

return

you have been dancing, drunk...

happy?

happiness is a chimera!

exclaimed...

euphoric?

no.

not euphoric.

not happy.

returned.

the chimera fantastic

the chimera virtual

the chimera imagined

returned.

reassembled.

the caduceus reappears

nights and days...

then there are taboos...

nights.

days.

taboos.

then there are the interstitials of god.

right now is all there is:

no god

no interstitial

no taboo

no day

no night

all, nothing.

maybe.

phenomena

i feel misunderstood and deceived.

you set me on a pedestal of expectation, and then walked away without a word. i looked around and grew wings to fly away from it all. my expectations got mashed into yours, and at the end there was a great primordial confusion of just not knowing anything at all. are you that attached to just the phenomenal?

not that i care to know the answer, not that i care for much at all. come to think of it, if thought is that which is happening, i never care, i just feel and know and abandon myself to non existence.

the hate and the rest

i hate it that you ask me to make decisions that you think i can make better than you. i can not decide better than you.

why me? why now? on what kind of film do i find myself in now? who wrote this screenplay? whose story is this?

i remember when a wise old man asked me if i was getting anything out of the tales he had to tell. i looked at him in surprise for i was convinced that he had something sweet to teach me. i was deaf, not blind. you and him share a name, gender and not much else as you both have encountered me at very different stages of this comedy of my life. his teaching was indeed very sweet, overwhelmingly sweet it was. that very question of his encapsulated what i needed. then i could not quite fathom what was going on. how could i have possibly been so rich and fortunate? how could i be so lucky and have so much when others had so little?

that is how i stayed and discovered that i had written my story and then proceeded to live it. when the subconscious bubbles up dreams that have me wonder what reality is because these dreams subsequently happen during my waking hours while i can make no sense of them, then i want to curse it all. now i am just annoyed and hating the fact that it is as it is. i want to embrace this hate like i have embraced this love. i do wonder why i have not yet ran away from it all. you tell your stories and you muse of your fears out loud and hidden in plain sight, and i do wonder if i will abandon caution and pretence and just hold out my hand to you. if i hold my hand out to you i know that we will stay alone as alone as we have always been. but do i want to hold your hand now?

so it is that i know no love, no hate, no passion, no glory, no emotion. am i like the wind? water is the most humble of all elements. are you like water?

still in the east

there is no time

there is no glory

there is no fame

there is no fortune

there is now

i felt it all

a direct hit of the senses

how could we have been so careless?

we were not.

we were bold

we explored

we explore

we discover

we live

to live is to love

i resent

resentment! what a strange word in my vocabulary it is. it is a foreign word in this vocabulary of mine. here in the place of horses and egos, my resentment has found a home.

i talked with you yesterday, you called, i answered, we both had no time. we connected. i feel naive and humbled. i am tasting sadness like i have never tasted sadness before. you told me about your back and your kidneys, and i told you about that secret that i keep hidden in plain sight, my pain.

i resent that she never took action to touch me. i do not resent being ignored.

it is strange that time and again you appear in my life to comfort me. you are a muse, you are inspiration, and you are imperfection itself.

are my sadness and pain the expression of my resentment? i do not resent not being acknowledged.

how can i tell you that it was not in the arms of another but in his arms i found that warmth that i dreamt could exist? when he found me i had so much resigned to my own solitude. now i need you the muse, and i need him the one of my one, his own.

i resent the deception. i see the suffering. i find myself powerless. i can only observe. but do i feel? do i care? i resent.

this

this anxiety is fear.

i did not know that it could feel this way.

fear...

fear!

how very foreign you are to me!

but why do i fear my wishes?

why do i fear my dreams?

why do i fear my desires?

am i any less than any other, so much less that i would have no right to my own insanity?

for the love of an angel

i have forgotten all

who was i then?

i feel the fury i feel the tempest i feel the storm i feel the furnace i feel the intemperance i feel the compulsion i feel the insanity

the morning hours are here and almost gone, the muse visits. now it is the muse and the angel embracing and disavowing all existence.

obsession.

there are moments

moments, that is all that there is

there are moments when i could die there are moments when i die

there are moments when i long for you there are moments when i forget you

there are moments...

moments of joy moments of tears moments of nothing moments of all

there are moments of life there are moments of you there are moments of me

there are moments

it is morning again

i am back remembering february, and november past. i travel wide and far these days, i write, i breathe and walk trough life wondering what the adventure is all about.

most of all, my encounters with those others on this planet do not leave me cold or passive. i am as curious as ever, and the adventure seems to have a new beginning with each sunrise.

just this week i had one of those moments when i was very present to the beauty of it all. felt loved and a part of it all, and questioned all the notions and ideas that one is polluted with in the process of just being on earth with other humans. i was then very present to what it is like to be held in your arms, and what it is like to be a part of this life and share those moments that we do share, and if there is something that i know, it is that i do not know what it is like to be you.

for some odd reason i always thought that the most intimate of all moments are not very personal. at some level those moments are not personal, yet when it comes to you, there is something personal, something that i have rare recollections of ever having experienced. i wonder if it is my memory that fails me, or if it is that what we share is precious beyond the capabilities of what my words can express.

it is pure joy to wake up early on a saturday morning rested and to have my first thought be of you, feel the longing for your presence, and to be happy in my solitude just the same, and to remember how your hand feels when you caress my legs and never knowing when again we will look into each others eyes. i miss your gaze, i miss your eyes, i miss you and i feel complete in this world of solitude and seclusion.

it is morning, and i am remembering. it is morning and i am dreaming. it is morning and i am grateful for this morning.

who am i?

can i answer the question of who i am before i know where i am?

what am i doing?

who am i?

today it occurred to me that i am without identity. deep inside me there is no identity. i have wondered if it is careless of me to walk around without identity. who am i?

why is it that life appears to me as such a comedy, or as a costume party? and then if not the comedy, or the costume party, other times all that i see is the infinite drama of life and death. what happens in between, i do ask myself.

days like today are different. yesterday i was fully present to all the meaninglessness of life, and then today it all became heavy. there was a light moment when in the office of a friend, for a whole of ten minutes, it was all clear. absolutely clear. then i get immersed in a reality that is foreign to me, and i do wonder what language these people speak, for i really do not understand any of it. it is all so absolutely foreign and strange. i feel displaced, out of time and space, out of it all.

it was like that this evening. i watched a film, but it was my own film that i was watching, and it was foreign to me. i do not like these moments when i can feel it all. i do not like these moments when i feel totally raw and vulnerable. why don't i like these moments?

who am i?

a week ago when i was in your arms, i forgot it all. then, there was just that moment. i am left soothed, inspired and aching for more of those moments. when you go, the questions return. who am i? who are you? who are we?

i know that it is my own wounds now that are surfacing. sometimes it all seems so absolutely ethereal. there is nothing, nothing at all that i can hold on to. i plainly just do not know how to hold on to anything. why must i only exist when i write?

tell me! hold me!

hold me, and let me free.

tell me, and let it be. trust.

there is no other

there is no other day like today

there is no other me like me

there is no other you like you

there is just today

there is just me

there is just you

the animal longs for the warmth of your touch and the fury of your desire

the spirit longs for the warmth of your being and the fury of your existence