And now that we must love from a distance–without touch, without digging deep in the souls of the others by locking their eyes with our own, without being mesmerized by their laughter and drinking it from a chalice, without playfully toiling with their hair with our fingers, without breathing fire into their hungry deceptive bodies–and now when we must stand in corners and long for touch, now that we have to listen to empty jazz tunes alone, and dance…from a distance, that we have to love from gory distances–now we miss Love and we will keep missing it until the grey macabre stillness takes it. And when we were driven mad by it, we looked away from it. Now we are being driven mad through it–without it. But now, we miss it and we are fools.
The window from which you look outside-into the grey stillness of the fading away world, has a crack. A very small and subtle one. But it grows every minute and soon it will turn into a void. Do you see this crack? Does it remind you of yourself? Does it remind you of anyone else? Does it remind you of the tragedy that is the human world? The human world which has been taken over by the crowds of people. Banal. Does it remind you of the the rabid dog which goes around yelping into the bleak, dingy streets filled with darkness? Does it remind you of the transsexual romantic wandering looking for closure form the world? Does it remind you of anything? Anyone?
Because there is a crack in everything. And everything is in that crack.
Remember the time when the sparrow waded in the sky and looked down below and the only thought it had was about jumping down and killing itself…Only the tragedy was that it had wings and it could fly. You do not remember because you were not there. But next time you are, remember this. Maybe that is why the sparrow flies. To dive down so it can perish. Maybe it is not about the flight, the freedom–maybe it is chained because of its wings! You do not know–because you do not have any wings. And that is your tragedy.
Remember the time when an orphan boy roamed around in disarray, finding a home inside his house, bluffing with his own being. He adopted a stray dog, because he saw something familiar in it. Only, the dog got gunned down, shot once, shot twice, shot dead and cold. That is the tragedy of the orphan boy who now wanders the streets, finding a home outside his house. You do not remember, because you have a home–outside your home. And that is your tragedy.
Do you recall the time when the old woman forgot herself? She sat in a wooden chair looking at the window with the crack and simply forgot who she was. She could not remember her happiness or her sorrows or her longing or her empty shell. She forgot to smile. She forgot to cry. She only remembered that she has forgotten herself. That is her tragedy. Oh so you do recall! That is your tragedy.
Remember the poetry of the vagrant? How they talked about the happy worlds and the giddy dreams? And the tumult in those cryptic words? Silence in the dead language? Remember how the vagrant passed it on to no one–and was lost! That was his tragedy. You can not remember because it made no sense to you. And so the poetry of the world was lost once more–and that is your tragedy.
I have no more stories for you–except I do. But like a subtly cracked window–I will pretend I have nothing. Except I have an abyss. And your tragedy is that I see, I feel and I hear. But you cannot see me watching you, listening to you, feeling you. Because you do not perceive me–you cannot hear me, you cannot feel me. That, perhaps is the tragedy of those around me. And my tragedy is that I know it and understand it.
And the window has a crack. But it is just a crack. And it is a defiant one. And like all defiant things–it too shall break. And that is perhaps the biggest tragedies of all. The tragedy of all tragedies.
There was a grey fire here last night
It burnt the roof of the city down
The orange canary sang in wilderness
The red dog wept in sadness
The purple cat hid in dismay
The people stared at the sea
That was an escape and this was the dream
The trees were ash and the house on the hill…
And the golden canary sang in its nest
They looked for me and I tried to hide
This was the story and it was a test
The whole city was burnt and there was smoke
People looked at the sky
For it was far and that was the cry
Sometimes I walk among the living dead
And I die a thousand lives
And when I come back to life
I talk to them and I laugh with them
And I love them and I fall in love with them
And when I turn back to see
I see all these faces
Of people that I do not know
And I don’t know their stories
Yet they have told me everything
And I heard
But I do not know them
They are strangers
And then there is myself
The strangest of them all
For they have seen me
And never loved me
And never fallen in love
And I am a wisp they all love
I am a stranger whom I do not know about
Today when the Hermit goes to work
Faces the music of oblivion
Sets the existence on fire
Carries the dead leaves within, around
Falls into a chasm…of clay
And out comes dust
And a new world thus made
Of dead leaves, clay and fire
The Hermit goes to slumber
When wakes, sees a world of nothingness
Therein dwell his two souls, the one asleep and the one in a dream
Along with dead leaves.
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?
Maybe. It doesn’t even matter.