‘Since these sentiments have exceptional force because of their collective origin, their universality, their permanence, and their intrinsic intensity, they separate themselves radically from the rest of our conscience whose states are much more feeble. They dominate us; they are, so to speak, something superhuman, and, at the same time, they bind us to objects which are outside of our temporal life. They appear to us as an echo in us of a force which is foreign to us, and which is superiors to that which we are. We are thus forces to project them outside ourselves, to attribute what concerns them to some exterior object. We know today how partial alienations of personality thus come about. This mirage is so inevitable that, under one form or another, it will grow until a repressive system appears [meaning crime or social exclusion].’
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. — R. Frost
I am a mountain, but I can shrink
I can come down to you.
Drowning is different from attracting
But suffering comes from both.
I keep telling myself
That all will be forgotten in the future
That what I suffer in height does not mean anything to the other world
But now, it is all I live in.
I do not think my temporary essences will be known…
Nor they should be known.
Even if I would reveal the secret
There would be nobody around
Because only I exist in the difficult clouds.
It does not matter what happens
It does not matter what is done to me
It does not matter I reject and get rejection
All that is
Is my own cell.
I am within it, yet I am never in
I do not let anything to touch me
But the things that move exist within me
I am alive but not because of the world around.
I have strange eyes.
I am obscure to myself
But not to the events
I know the sequences
But not the forces
I know the ending
But not the states
And the one state I know
The state of myself
I see people
Painting their reflections
The brush is the self
The others are the direction of the brush
The canvas is the expectation
And the result will be the final truth.
The more you paint
The more you lock yourself within the ties
And we all paint just by existing.
Once you start existing
Once you start painting
You create the invisible cage
Is the corruptiong of the human mind.
You accept that you are grass
But can’t remember that you were ever given a seed.
We are composed of social cells
We are given everything
And as fools, we accept.
We don’t own ourselves
We are all owned by each other
Through sharing the invisible cages.
We are all in a depressing cycle
A vicious cycle, depressed of itself.
Your nerves have been the nerves of your society
For, perhaps, twenty, forty, seventy years
Your reflexes are not your own
Your immediate attitudes are not yours.
No. Don’t believe that.
It is scary
How natural we think we are
But if it is in our nature to be untrue
Who is there to define what we really are?
Me and my panda hat. :-D
‘You are running out of bubbles.
But you want to remain under the water surface anyway.’
Friday night, some while ago back in Prague.
London uni. A ghost moment in halls.
What happens on a circle
Is known by all of it
We are balancing on opposite sides
The wind we cause leaves us separated
But in action, we are always aware of each other
We are each other’s constant
Each other’s reality
We live on the edge
Of a radius we hold
In our world
Harmony is firm
But flows like wires.
I’m so glad I didn’t go clubbing like everyone else but just had fun with my sparklers on a Friday night…
Middle of the night. Sparklers. My face hiding behind them :D
A self-portrait in the middle of the night.