I have stopped trying to be happy happiness is a thing so scary sometimes it leaves before it arrives why should I wait for it? all I want or try is 'not to be sad' but things always come with consequences and sadness is a loyal friend stays when I want it gone it gets diaplaced with temporary emotions but never leaves me on my own If I am an ocean for me it's the ocean's depth engulfs all that comes or sail it away and when I am distracted by the moon's magnetic touch having an impact from a great distance it pulls me back to where I belong, where I am owned, In a cold dark world where sadness is a must
Why do you exist? No, it is not a question about a deeper philosophical meaning to existence, but a simple question on why do you wanna live for another day and do not want to escape the sound that the clock makes?
You breathe in and out of this existence, exhausting every bone and merely collapsing into the night to do it all over again.
There is a sense of normality that no one wants to question. It is as if we are here for a reason. I think it gives a certain purpose to this mundanity, you wake up in and out of it without questioning why it is the way that it is. Sometimes we are attached to things that make not a lot of sense, like love and stars perhaps. The longer you try not to ponder too much about this benign comfort, the better you sleep with some plans to a tomorrow that doesn't exist.
I do not know where I'm going with this, it doesn't have the structure and discipline to be something meaningful, art. I wish I knew the right words to tell you about the way how each neuron lights up and creates a subjective reality that feels so personal.
Sometimes you feel too much, it is as if all the words the world has to offer is not enough to pen it down on a white sheet of paper that looks as empty as the space between stars where light forgot to touch. You're not sure what to make of it, what it is that you're feeling, or the why.
You read all the books you could find, yet feel so empty as the day before. Maybe there are lines between the lines that you do not know how to read, maybe all that you see is all that you can understand. You talk, to a stranger after another at three in the morning in a hope that they feel the same, that they could understand but it ends the same mundane way, predictable.
I've read somewhere that language is the reason we have evolved to be different from the creatures that lurk in the dark. The cognitive tradeoff hypothesis argues that during our evolution, humans had to sacrifice our short-term memory to facilitate complex language capabilities. Perhaps, language is the one thing holding our civilization together, letting us express whatever it is that we are feeling to feel better or worse in the next moment. It is such a beautiful thing when you think about it, by carefully placing some lines and curves on empty space, you feel connected to a reality that is much more complex and chaotic than your own.
Chaos is not always a villain, we came into existence from the cosmic chaos that keeps on expanding beyond our reach. Maybe that is the purpose of all of this, evolving slowly to witness all the chaos that unfolds all around us and watch it in awe, how it gives birth to worlds that are beyond our touch but a starry night away. There is a poetic touch to all of this, I feel.
Maybe this poetic touch is what makes us not ponder too much the futility of it all. Every moment feels so real and keeps on pushing us to more dusks and dawns that we love to witness. Every dusk is followed by dawn, every end is another beginning. We don't know if it is true, but we love the poetic touch of it.
It may not be grounded in reality, all that we feel, perhaps all of this is a random collapse of a system that we can never comprehend, and we are nothing but a speck of stardust that looks at the sky in awe and dies alone. But the truth is, art doesn't have to be real. Art is about what something makes you feel not about the exact depiction of reality. Like, starry night. Starry night isn't an exact replication of reality, it is not a painting of what Van Gogh saw, it is a painting about what he felt in that moment and that is what makes it so special. That is why we need art and artists, to feel that depth of existence that we always yearn for. To feel and connect to the poetic touch that is hiding in plain sight in the mundane part of our days and nights.
What is art, I often wonder. To be able to feel something, something that's so simple and pristine beyond our senses can gently decode, but so hard to explain why it is that you feel that way. When Byron wrote, "She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies." you and I don't think about the same person, yet it makes you think about something, something that feels so personal that it skips a heartbeat.
Then there is a someone. Someone that fits so well with our messy nights. It is always the nights that you feel more connected to, certain tranquility that makes you more alive. A poignant touch of reality that is so calm that you can finally collect all the pieces that feel so disconnected, and place them on the cold floor. Then there is someone, someone who places their hand on top of yours and tries to connect the missing parts that lie naked on the floor. It is these moments that make you realize that existence is not suffering, but a certain feeling that only a few can understand on some nights like these. Feelings that you can rarely wrap around with the right words to tell the world, but deep down feel so real that you feel like you belong. Then there is someone, someone who feels like art in its purest form, few lines, and a million metaphors. Someone who feels like home.
I love how broken this feels, each block of letters so disconnected from another ranting about a reality that isn't yours but a stranger that you don't even know about. But here you are, following every line and curve on a screen looking for something. I won't ask you what it is that you're looking for, it may not make sense to many, and it is not supposed to make sense to many, art is special that way and I know you would understand.
how to write a poem? I often ask myself this same question, each time starting anew. umpteen words and uncertain feelings, they come and go in silence. fragile like a rusted door waiting for a push to open, a new world awaits. more words to form more rhymes to thrive I'll gather them around and ask this, am I close enough or still far away to write a poem to feel the world?
when you start stripping down all the colors and all that's left are some blacks and whites. you find all the shadows falling behind some inconspicuous corners of an unlit room.
you feel your skin touching the final stroke of solitude. you breathe in and out, exhausting every bone to catch up with this monotony
but I'm feeling like a human today is that okay?
I have this disease of falling in love with everyone and everything. I let 'em borrow a little part of me to fill their broken facades and now i live in pieces, scattered around places and people beyond my reach. maybe I am dying too.