whereof memory’s veil does love take root

 

                       tout y parlerait

                                  a l’ame en secret,

                    sa douce langue natale.

                                                                                      – Baudelaire

 

hemstrung days

How did I end up here?

So far
        inside this foreign land -
with its beaded suns and its longing for wisdom.

The days under burden by some unseen eyes,
where shelters are worn for comfort and not disguise.

Is it bewildering
       even to our fearless hearts
when lovers
keep their doors locked
                   for pride
     or fear of old age?.

Or is this what we recognise as existence
in this strange barren place?

I know not myself when I’m here

and I’ve now been lost for twice that long.

Can I undo my bonds from where I don’t belong?
Or have I sunk my roots too deep

like an ill-stricken tree
waiting

to be uprooted

by some fierce storm in some unknown time.

Waiting quietly

and

offering shelter for disguise.

 

in it she lands

the empire of the senses. the empire of a darkened sun. a moonless sky no less.
so it is one arrives at the netherland of false truths and vanishing narratives.

how to view david lynch’s new film, inland empire. for $7 a night you get a sense of the acephalic. or more portentously, a truth you refuse or are too scared to admit.

how does the night wind up in this way? that not only do you loose your way, you loose everything you knew about yourself. you wind up with someone else’s history which you do not understand and have no way of discovering until it is too late. as if it’s always meant to be this way, a part of your own future but for the fact that it has already happened to someone else.

more and more, i am convinced that it is the fear of being stuck in the present that is not ours to possess that presses us on, through the grind of the everyday, driven by a degree of thanklessness in living.

and sometimes, our subconscious reveals to us the grand plan. but sedated in our dreams, we can handle – anything.

and timelessness takes on a new identity as if it were living amongst us.

perhaps this, perhaps this empire is so vast that we are unable to live it. so we are driven to repeat our own histories.

 

99999

And so begins another friday half way through the day. These fridays always start again, as if to haunt all those other days stacked up in the corner waiting their turn.

 

100000

Today, the rain : He is reminded of the brisk walks to the city bus stop. Between the tall buildings he sees slits of a metallic sky and sometimes a moon. Is this what it means to be alive?

 

light night

The cavern of night holds many truths. While the chimera of dreams veil our consciousness.

 

before the rain

i am in awe

of the complexities of the human mind

and our souls’ desire to see

in a cloudy day, only  possibilities of love

 

 

and here lies the darkened soul and our misguided paths to glory

 

inessence: sweet

once a long time ago, someone said to me: you’re very sweet.

it was like a huge reality check. so, with much protest in between, i defended myself against what i thought was an ugly insult. you know, better to be told as cool, or sexy, or even nerdy, than be described with that single most inane word – sweet.

a sickly concoction, not sour or anything remotely challenging to your senses, but pleasant, with a bit of odour… or, somehow it describes an innocence that one would and should avoid possessing, especially when you’re trying to charm someone.

but instead of taking back what was said, i was instead questioned as to whether i knew the meaning of this word at all: sweet. what is its essence? i had to confess somewhat dourly that i had never, at least not in living memory, looked the word up in the dictionary. with little persuasion, i found something akin to love…

i think celine captures the essence of this little word, here:

 

melancholy and desire, monday morning at 3am

what chance encounter… to pass by you as if you’re an ephermal image that appears with the night. and the pleasure to chase you out at dawn. a nightingale with death awaiting you each morning.

is it that your desire is to be (re)born in darkness each night?