The clouds gaped and folded, closed across the moon. The night passes by, as the world seemed to disappear all together into the stale, soporific air. The rain finally stopped, as if to make way for the cold lightnings, no sounds, just constant flashes of harsh, blinding lights against the canvas of pure darkness. And you awoke, out of darkness that was not sleep, not dream, but something beyond the comforting sight, magnificent, pointing steadily towards the promise. In that stroke of light, the cradle of a future emerged, vaguely on the hindsight. Hope stretched far across the sea, drawing the outline of the past, dark silhouettes are now gone, the sea, visible glimmering waves, vanishes into a thin line, touching the sky above.
I remember the truth, like the warm and humid September nights, sublime agony and a million dotted lines the sweat once trickled. The vine grew after the rain, snakes up the barren land, within the gaps that split open like fresh wound. Rooted freshly at the tip of the ground, drawing moisture, dissipates heat, a container where the inevitable occurs. How many nights spent, watching the trees shiver in the midnight breeze? The perfect stillness, an after image of the future, captured in the thin glow.
The fool within us slowly stepping into murky waters, to strangle truth, to bend and twist, as if to drown it with force, every limbs, every strengths, every muscles conjured. The truth is undeniable, it is a great power that is able, and must exist on it's own without binding to any sort of beliefs and definitions., despite individual perceptions. The absolute is the same for everyone, regardless place, time or culture. With you, however, the truth is an ominous thing, your voice that promises that same thing, darted from that point of origin, torn and beaten up, long lost, confounded.
The perfect stillness outside is now gone, the whistling wind seeps through the window pane, the fluttering curtain fabric, the notion is clear. Through the window glass. A dozen trees strummed by strong merciless wind, sand and tiny pebbles flew, carried by angry ghosts. Loose pores sinks deeper, skeletons revealed. Destruction, deadly - just when normal life felt almost possible, when the world held some kind of meaning, when order finally fell into place - even some strange loveliness, it haunts, consuming it's own debris, to fortify and manifest it own existence, finally exploding brighter than ever.
I admire the length you go, just to obscure, or even manipulate the truth when you know it better, it finds it's way out eventually. Regardless the great lies you made up, or the layers of beliefs you stacked up upon, it takes the form of time, shaping it existence. The infusion of boundless chaos, injected upon controlled order, the world according to you.
That glimpse - not the imposing dark figures, not the towers raising steadily ahead, but that blistering light into the future. The wonderful feeling to be caught up in hope and deadly expectations. One step forward, to dive below, everything falls into perspective.
The first thing we saw, far, far away, nothing mere than unfulfilled fantasies. That little dream, as wide as night, deeply rooted in our vulnerability, filling all inadequacies with made up realities.
Hence we landed,
feet on flames.
Burnt into ashes,
in the light of day.
I remember the truth, like the warm and humid September nights, sublime agony and a million dotted lines the sweat once trickled. The vine grew after the rain, snakes up the barren land, within the gaps that split open like fresh wound. Rooted freshly at the tip of the ground, drawing moisture, dissipates heat, a container where the inevitable occurs. How many nights spent, watching the trees shiver in the midnight breeze? The perfect stillness, an after image of the future, captured in the thin glow.
The fool within us slowly stepping into murky waters, to strangle truth, to bend and twist, as if to drown it with force, every limbs, every strengths, every muscles conjured. The truth is undeniable, it is a great power that is able, and must exist on it's own without binding to any sort of beliefs and definitions., despite individual perceptions. The absolute is the same for everyone, regardless place, time or culture. With you, however, the truth is an ominous thing, your voice that promises that same thing, darted from that point of origin, torn and beaten up, long lost, confounded.
The perfect stillness outside is now gone, the whistling wind seeps through the window pane, the fluttering curtain fabric, the notion is clear. Through the window glass. A dozen trees strummed by strong merciless wind, sand and tiny pebbles flew, carried by angry ghosts. Loose pores sinks deeper, skeletons revealed. Destruction, deadly - just when normal life felt almost possible, when the world held some kind of meaning, when order finally fell into place - even some strange loveliness, it haunts, consuming it's own debris, to fortify and manifest it own existence, finally exploding brighter than ever.
I admire the length you go, just to obscure, or even manipulate the truth when you know it better, it finds it's way out eventually. Regardless the great lies you made up, or the layers of beliefs you stacked up upon, it takes the form of time, shaping it existence. The infusion of boundless chaos, injected upon controlled order, the world according to you.
That glimpse - not the imposing dark figures, not the towers raising steadily ahead, but that blistering light into the future. The wonderful feeling to be caught up in hope and deadly expectations. One step forward, to dive below, everything falls into perspective.
The first thing we saw, far, far away, nothing mere than unfulfilled fantasies. That little dream, as wide as night, deeply rooted in our vulnerability, filling all inadequacies with made up realities.
Hence we landed,
feet on flames.
Burnt into ashes,
in the light of day.
I
