Words get woven only to fade away, All the noises of conversations with myself and others They fall prey to the tyranny of silence, They die at dusk.
I feel the frenzy in my head And as much as I'm enticed by words I tell myself Life isn't a process of becoming We can just be, we cannot become.
We don't live when we live for another moment When we ceaselessly talk of another moment. This moment is everything there is All the past, all the future, all of the dreams and regrets.
We think in images not words, all the wrong images, You know the thing about fear and pain, They make you believe in the existence of a moment where you can undo them just by thinking about them.
Anger and sorrow you always want to get rid of Fears are something you want to get rid of That is why you hold on to them so vehemently, But there is only so much you can do in this moment.
There's only one thought you can have in this moment But there is more to this moment that your thoughts. Life is the art of dying, thoughts don't matter at all, Discovering life in the breath, that's all there is to it.
I've always been rather afraid of rivers, because I know that's where my deceased father remains. The bed of the river is where they dump the remains of the dead.
//And when you dip in the river, you immerse yourself, among the countless dreams shattered, several souls that didn't know it was the last time they'll see their loved ones, just like my father didn't//
I've always been rather thankful to the rivers, because I know that's where my deceased father remains. I know, now that my father has ceased on land, I'll be able to find him in the water floating quietly and serene, somewhere calling out my name.
//I hope the winds will answer for me, and tell him about the things I wish I could, but I can't//
Winds, tell him that I have a lot in common with him. How I always tune in to the radio at eleven at night, or how I always fold the sleeves of my shirt.
//But it's eerie to have something in common with the dead. To resemble something that doesn't even exist. To be so much like something, yet be close to nothing//
The bed of the river, that is now the bed of the dead, take care of my father, he was all I ever had.