The Light Gave It Away

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Light is our friend and light is deceit and all the same while light is a phenomenon. A call for the oblivious–for the one who is so, is in dark. We all wish for the light. Because in light we feel safe, and secure. As it is in light when we are far away from the wistful bleak rooms and walls of our own thoughts.

It is in light, when miracles happen. It is light, which is a miracle. The blinding miracle–similar to the sand in the deserts where man is secure and insecure at the same time. And light, its intensity is often our savior. Light.

The blurry road–stretching so far away. Yes that road. The only road. The only way. Caught in so much dust. And blur. And shadows. Ah. The enemy.

And there I was. Having to travel that road. The one road. Having to carry the load of the dead dreams and dead poets and dead souls. The road, not less traveled, not far traveled…

So there we all stood together. Me and the dead dreams and the dead poets and the dead souls. We were one. How will we walk. How will we drift. How will time move. How will we see. How will we endure. How will we see. What will we see.

And humans, they stared. They laughed. They talked. We stood. Not very apart. But not very close. That dilemma. The haze. The winds. The people. What do they know? But, they know everything. They still don’t learn. They still ponder, and stare and talk and laugh.

SO i set. Forward. One step. Then another. Then more. The world, a great blur–for as far as the eyes can see. Then soon.

Ah. Light. The light gave it away. The road–was not just the path anymore. It became a twisted void of empty voices that echoed. But, the light–it gave it away.

Soon the friend, soon the enemy. Giving the secrets of the dark away. The enemy.

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Threads

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Stories make up half of our life, atoms make up the other half. Threads-bind these halves and make the two rights-right…as long as one believes in that.

Threads are strands of twisted fragments of fibers held together–to hold together–things. Threads are pieces. Threads are twisted pieces. They bind together things-which are apart, which need to be less twisted. Twisted fragments to un-twist.

Threads bind together the missing pieces from the past to the motionless present to the blurry visions of the far ahead, the future. Just think for one moment. Do they really? Are all of these really bound together?

The present gathers dust because we can not bury the past and sometimes because we want to see the end. In all this, the motionless present gathers dust. And we become the forlorn images of a forgotten bliss and build inside huge walls of solitude.

Maybe none of this makes any sense. Maybe it makes a lot of sense. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

Ever wonder why and hoe music stirs so many emotions inside us? Has it something to do with the brain? Or the damaged machine we call the heart? Or both? Both. Both are bound.

We are humans. Not threads. We may be bound to each other. But. We are not threads. We get attached, and detached. We can be one, and many at the same time. We are humans.

With souls. With deranged bodies, where the soul rests. With perplexed emotions, that we have to carry.Carry because otherwise, we are just a mass. We have eyes..which can dream, which can see. Which can recognize colors. And be deceived sometimes.We have hopes-which are fathomless. We have a heart–frazzled. A mind–bewitched. And we are tired, but restless. We exist. But we are not threads.

We are imitations of each others and so different. We are not twisted fibers that hold together things. and we are. We are not threads. We are imitations of threads..or it, ours. Entwined. Complex. Detailed. We are humans.

Our existence is a plan. A frightful sleep with the eyes open. An awakening with eyes tightly shut. A path. Just a path. A story with many chapters and poetry and prose and morals and an end. All bound together by various threads of countless things. It takes one single motion which cuts the cord. Does it all scatter?

We are humans. Threads stitch us. Maybe this makes no sense. Maybe this makes a lot of sense.threads

Maybe. It doesn’t even matter.

Dipoles

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The oppressed mind–makes the eyes stare in the dark

Every one and no one was to rejoice

In past memories and future shadows

An inkling–

The past has faces while the present has emotions

But the eyes constantly stare

A tune, a song, what is it!?

Which plays in the hollow of the naked dark day

The tired body–makes the soul dream

Of freedom–from the shakles

Each and all were to part–

You took that road which I was not allowed to take

I took that path which you could not find

The eyes, constantly gape

In the glistening bright night–none stirred

Each toiled!

And the eyes….they stared, in the space, deep into infinity

Then, the soul was free, so it was lost

The body–was dead and so it was born again!