green dreams that shudder
I love to write about dreams. They're the purest form of thought, the purest form of beauty. Old pianos lined up in the used shop, people all brushing by. It's like those old times, before I knew people were people, before being immersed into the choirs. How is it that dreams are frosted with the mist of old memories? How do the people passing by feel so thinly real, like an unreachable haven humming the melody of summer. Colorful houses surrounded the shop, empty houses covered in color.
I sat there, lazily looking at the scene, the moisture in the air stuck to my skin. The sky was like cotton all around. This is what it felt to own the world, once before I knew it was infinite. Long time since the stars have been mine, long time since.
twisted roads
Another dream, suffocating into the deep ashy wool-swallowed by the warmth, sitting alongside the whistling trees. Winter is the season of longing, and all illusions of immortality and youth are destroyed in the wake of the cold winds. Cold brittle winds. after the promises of gems within us, and glimmers of gold not yet discovered, the days continue through the eyes of the normal and uninspiring. I saw the cars pass through the mountains on small roads and fade into the silhouettes of houses, mist overtaking their engines and muting the noise. Sharp blue winters come rattling beneath the foot of the earth with emotions not yet named.
this once in murky grey
The deep smells of nostalgia pour over me like a fountain of my old youth. A child is a child, unaware and live with life, and then in their deepening years, they learn of shame and cowardess and all gruesome troubles that seek out the living. A sadness locks within the special hours, days where the earth felt ripe and green, and no one could come and open your eyes from the dream. Corrupting the soul, time did come, cold withered hands tainting the spring of our life. Look back now into the garden once yours, look back into the garden. If you'd known then of change, you'd sit along the winter, never looking into future days.
a winding boat
The oracle sits in wait, knowing all the threads of my life. A distant laughter twists into the dream spell, she knows of what is kept within me. There are voices all around me, and in my moment of courage I walked towards the widowed oracle. Before this, I had never known a moment of truth, before this I had never seen myself in truth. She tells me of my figure of fear, she whispers to me and I understand, it is my fear of dreams becoming big, big enough to take away. The oracle sits as she is, wise and knowing. Tears couldn't be formed from the dream world. Upon waking I felt that widow reside within me and cry out and I shrank within the covers of my morning bed. Distant whispers of truth, living in the dream.
rubbing up against the spirit
Dreams are the strange weaving things that speak to our spirit in a forbidden language. As if to mock and tease, we wake into the world with a soft confusion, we beg once more to be gifted with the eyes to see what we have seen, or the words to speak out what we have heard. The soul sleeps within the walls of the maze, hidden from sight like shadows running into the warm light. The images seen in our sleep are washed by our calloused hands, gritted down into tiny shells of sand, and we, left there in awe- become knights of a lost war. Once more awake to our psychic covering of the soul and all of its secrets.
in the bend of breeze
The sin crawls onto me like a soft fatty winter, the rubber film sticks on my once innocence. Now I sleep awake, nights I dream and doubt awake. Jitters in the spring encase the collection of trees, fresh green winds. No days softer than this, not before the cold rush.
thistles.
In the morning I woke, from the leakage of a bad dream. I shifted down the hallway and into the bathroom, a shadow washing over my mirror. The ache in my stomach had come back as if punished by the lack of choice, searching within me for the mercy and falling back into slumber just for a moment. The possibilities lie within endless plains, somewhere within them is the voice of the lord, saying to me something of a silent code. Prayers reach hardly above ground, and I believe it’s all due to the efforts I lack.
When becoming a girl of my age, when becoming a young lady, I thought to myself I must do many things at once, and surely they'll all fall into their right seasons. But I am here now, with the candid thinkings of failure, I am not that girl. Failure is not an option and rather, not a choice. Failure is a temporary product, the product of something that can be repaired. In the morning I woke, thinking of my figure in the mirror, failures of being.
pains of growing large
I know the things that come to mind, worries of the future and an itch of freedom I have yet to find. Swinging from the extremities, I had thought before that happiness would find me in a quiet atmosphere.
In a sense, this is true, and yet I feel now more than ever, an isolation of internal spirit, a supression of something wordless. As if I am swallowed whole, there are these thoughts colliding with me now, prying into my choices.
In some spectacular fashion, I think now of the small things I miss, and the sounds I have yet to hear, too much time has passed.
my spherical stairway
The latest of my dreams have shown me an open and endless staircase, from which I have climbed further and further to find no end in sight.
The sun seemed to set behind my endless path and burned above the sea, striking the sky with fumes of red.
There is a wonder in drifting into dreams, as I have spoken of before, but this particular topic does not escape me easily, I find myself returning to the writing of dreams often.
My dreams have seemed to sync with the changes of the season, as the sun did burn deep into the evening, casting a shadow over my dreams just the same.
feathers flew onto the wet window
In my quiet time, I sat and pondered the value of things and what changes have come from modern indifferences. The cost of pleasures only multiplies as the era moves onward, while the sacred things that we held dear, a letter or other, is worthless in the age of technical communication.
I wonder about the secret potential we must have hidden within us if we did not flee to the streets of cities and drink from the cup that kills us. I think more and more of the changes we have gone under, and the gods we have purged for the sake of vices large and small.
Those rituals once done in secret are now naked in the season of illness. Moments race by us now, and chiming into the collective record, are strange hums and whispers that pull on the hands of human impulse.
one small torment
The mind is a magical thing. You can create a cycle of scenarios that fix you into a person who made different choices, a person who has the skill to fix others. Revisiting upon the threshold of old memory, I find all sort of confusions, faces that shape into each other and moments that last an eternity of hours. Is it that I cannot bare to release those memories into the past, or is it that those memories cannot release themselves from within me? I nod my head now at the mutual understanding I have for it, the majestic string of mystery that ties together time spent in agony, time spent in bliss.
a considerable amount of quiet
The wind rushed through the branches of snow coated trees today, shaking the layers off little by little. Changing images lapsed through my mind as I walked through the path on my way back home. I think more good thoughts of getting old and withering with the seasons of my life.
sharks in shallow waters
In another odd occurance of my dreams, I felt alone in empty waters. Looking into them I could see a triad of sharks facing upwards to the sun, sleeping as humans do, eyes shut and resting. I stood there in the water, afraid to wake them, afraid of the aroma of my fear, but I simply stayed there, staring at sharks sleep.
Indoor pools feel like small oceans and if you have got the imagination for it, you can close your eyes and imagine being swallowed whole by some sea predator. Sometimes I think of things like that while I'm cleaning, and I start to get that nervous feeling, as if some invisible force is snapping at me. I swing back and forth from fear to amusement at the absurtity of such scenarios.
In other events I have felt some levels of melancholy and nostalgia overtake me, it could be that I am not used to prolonged winter and the snow is breaking me in, coloring me blue.
she who holds the horn
There are dreams that feel as if reality has spilled into them and there are realities that feel, as if they have lived as a dream.
I have had a series of dreams, dreams of running and transporting, dreams of moving and seeing. Those dreams are sacred like any other, but different in their taste.
It feels like an unpersisting heaven, a world of wonder to spin in your sleep, to move through a house that is not your own. In the most recent of my dreams, I am led into a pathway, walking into a valley of color and life.
The people around me, all behind me, forget that I am there, and though I turn and face them and speak, they all hear my words as silence, and see my face as a whisper. I drift deeper into the pathway, spinning alongside the figures of people unknown, living as a secret in my dreams.
evening bone
º In this world, kept inside the threads, I am only a pebble of the past, a memory of what has already occurred, death, and the wonderful iridescence of present life. Sinking into the slits of palms, an infant sun, and in the lines of the soul, a moon of youth.
I think about shadows then, and wonder if those too are shared fragments of seasons not mine, pieces of people that I cannot hold. In this lake of eyes I am, only the shape of another- a being, borrowed in dreams.
The curve of warm coffee
I think, the only redeemable thing to come of human society as it is now, is the subtle taste of tea, the steaming black coffee that sits along invisible dust on cafe tables. Those are the parts of humanity I am thankful for, the rewards of hidden efforts that I'm happy to receive.
There are others, maybe better than that, like that of used paper, spilled stains covered along the lines so as to turn the fabric of it all into a crinkled senior of its earlier self.
I like things like that, things that appear to reject their true form, in trade for another, more defining trait.
Small things like that are just like the crook of a human nose, something that most would do away with if they could, but in the right eyes, those mysterious details jab into the meaning, skew it into something that cannot be replaced.
There are fragments of the non-machine in those bits of us, something that would not be produced by the bots of man.
There, in those fantastic and strange choices of creation, we find a comfort in error.
The curve reminded us of the black crows bend, the crinkled paper rang a bell of fallen oak in autumn, and all things found in flaw drew back to some anomalous pattern we saw in our dreams, the ghost of a charming defect.
to open, an illness.
Quicker than those white dreams, came all before them,
Nightmares and such, little tales of falling failures.
One bright green day, where secrets lay sacred, i fell between the cracks of openness.
To tell a friend of a hidden truth is that of unlacing, unopening and unbecoming.
For this long, I could not tell the difference between a truth and a fiction, words said for survival sake or whispers held behind that mask.
Worries stack up into a great pile, a massive extinction of character and blameless confusion,
Worries just like they were years ago, only ridden, with the bitter taste of morning.
I sunk down back into my seat again, moving deeper into the non world, away from the burdens of the cold clearness of human vision.
Trapped there inside the yarn ball, trapped there in a sequence of fantasy events,
I became an angel, unraveling at the darkness, swimming in the chalky water of death.
A complete loss of consciousness, a fate of opening, a fate of telling.
The curse of suggestion and revelation.
white lake
If there may be pity amongst the angels for us, we would be called shameful beauties, pitiful children- tainted in a darker shade.
Is there a weight at all to a name given to yourself? Isn't it the law of this shallow earth that a title be accepted as an offering from outside eyes?
Nothing could be more understood than when the full massive eye in midnight was named the moon. Our words create the construct of warmth around the truth, shelter for our lies.
Upon finding the sounds slurred together that echo out an image into our soul, we keep them with us, and I wonder what could be more honest.
It seems, even a thief holds truth in his name. In some time, we will pass on, creatures of failure and innocence, holding names not truly ours- only ever seen in the eyes of angels.
I sit late at night and ponder on these things, what the value of words may be, what human shade colors them now, and when we said goodbye to our precious ones, calling it a sacrifice made it that much more beautiful.
The last days we hold dear
When the cold clams up and when the sun shines again, I too will be renewed.
With this new coming of the year, the spring will crack into the leaves and so we will all feel the weight of sunny green days.
Our town will fill once more with the forms of people who hid away from the moon, and winter, will be all but a memory.
I thought I saw the fading shadows of the mountains move with the north winds, passing by me in a whisper.
Those winds will surely die now and breathe into the night elsewhere.
Our dark times flee, in the end of our cold blue nights.
I hold a light, still in comfort
I start to think at times, when the light is low and the candle is dying, that I may be the only one who understands that shade of inner skin. Night blooms deep into darkness and I arrive again at the idea that soft winds may also feel that hungry insatiable desire to float, to fly.
If a great big pit grew within that center of wishing, i'd speak silently into it, the intimate song of murky longing.
Now the candle is dim and sleeping and silently nodding along to my inner whispers. At times they dreamt of floating too.
wonders in blue
I'll start this entry with my dream,as usual. There I was stuck in my old desert home, only smaller and made entirely out of wood. I started to think that there are some things only remembered in dreams. I had forgotten all about this old home buried in that ocean of memory.
Suddenly in my sleep I remembered, golden frames and glass tables, a small white kitchen that felt open and lonely. I found myself running everywhere in this dream, through my old life and into the new one.That is the magic of dreams, somehow everything comes swinging in all at once in some fantastical non-reality.
I have always thought, if I could live inside the womb of dreams eternally, I would. In the arms of that place, you forget about the complex bonds, the fear in your skin, and all the little things that keep a cold sweat running- all your faults and fears. Within that strange world, we're threaded into the blue soil of half life.
sun in december windows
These days I am feeling affection from the trees and the life at home, the warm december embrace and mundane daily rituals.Sometimes the old versions of yourself ring into your ears as a bell of shame and you, in your cowardice, hang your head and erase the image of that past.
I know there is nothing wrong with change. Those worries wash away when weekend comes, when I am buried beneath the covers and swirly lines of steam rise from my teacup. All I can think of then is the cobblestone alleys in the big town and how held I felt by the winter lights.
I had forgotten/boy in the bear suit
honest dreams have swum, deep into the murky blues last night,
snapping jaws and shining shark teeth, rubbing into the pearly human vein.
In winter, I miss those ripples of white, dancing on the pool floor, patterns of a chalk white sun-
swimming with me
circling around the queen
cowering inside the covers of shame,
queens become crystals of the dark colony
threaded between webbed fingers
our tips touch the cloth in the melancholy game
O glistening hum I followed you fourth
into the corners of the rotting door
white wonders in the church
have the years of shushing silence taught us
divine holiness can relinquish our sins hiding beneath the wing?
if only we could be heard from our lowest caves,
seen at the time of our darkest dances
if i be your servant and my voice doesnt sleep-
will those sneaking doubts crawl away from me
and pull me upwards into you?
🝏 sheer illness 🝏
A cunning coldness cures the evil,
clears the dark away.
like a night full of bright and innocent dreams,
we were washed away into a mood of child like purity-
purity only felt in the silence of our moonlit midnight.
reflections in the square glass show a shadow beneath her eyes,
as if she hadn’t experienced the release of sleep once in her life.
she drifted as a ghost, walking through the night into the day.
she knew, there was within her, the kindest and purest form of a dual soul.
the skin of evil, lying delicately amongst the feathers of the only angel in the aether.
oh angelic beast, what truth lie behind your cold, empty eyes,
what hide there amongst the illusions
🝤 woven, weaving
Soft and small I awoke, like the remnants of a wave in the deepest times of midnight.
peering out of my window, homes like mine, all lined up in the simple rural manner of a neighborhood where nothing more interesting than yesterday can happen.
Summer came again, knocking at the door with nothing in its hands but warmth and silence.
❈ anchors in the reeds
in the misty vein of the forest lie the candle of serenity. a fleshy breath soon comes from the slow, solitary steps of the path. the quietness within the earth bleeds into the quickening hour, our angels be beside us. my kind and cold evening, lace yourself on the surface of my shallow eye, an eternity of these hazy dreams
‡ sequence of flowing
In our bordered hearts,
a breaking pattern in an age of decay,
for the shell of our secrets
hide behind the silent spirit of spring