the letters have escaped.

http://escapingtexts.blogspot.com/

I meets H.

third and final letter.

this is the last letter I found unposted. When I read this letter, I knew, at that moment, that I was looking at his last letter. He had written so.

My silent confidant:

Every moment endures as long as the moment. The vault exists as long as something fills it. The abyss is where I have never been. Therefore I cannot speak of it as a moment. I meant to bring you along, to face this nameless dread and despair that afflict me nightly. But I do not know the way. And I cannot ask you so selfishly to travel with me.
I can call this place a purgatorical world which resembles earth. But resemblance is such a hyprocritical concept - trace after traces of being not quite the thing you classify. How can resemblance be even possible? But that is not the central question here. How do I conquer this whole trial of probation in which it resembles as much as it differs? Without knowing that it is a trial of probation, I neither inhabit the space nor live the time designated. It is the not here and the not there. Now, having conceived this space, I can only dread the relationship I have with the moment which is an experience in the form of a contradiction. I am shocked and I am not shocked. In such an instance (which will take some time to lessen its grip), I have at hand nothing ready to counter this occasion except that of differance. I immediately give up the equivocal significance of the moment in which I could conceive, and misread it as a signifance, and leave the field of relationship. That is to say, I leave. I disappear. What was significant is now deferred into an insignificance. And it is both.

But I am not dead.

I dare not suggest that I am dead. Every human being can only die twice. One figuratively. One literally. I had died that figurative death. And I have yet to die the literal one. Therefore, I have not died. But I will.
I cannot drag you, my reader, along, precisely because I am not yet dead. I can see well my intentions to, so pardon me if I made it seem so.

But now that I have finally identified a moment in time (which I am still in) as a trial of probation - a convenient category I can fully feel safe in - I am at once weakened and strengthened by my conception. The space and time immediately exist. I am living in, consciously this moment.

That way, I can make it the longest detour in my life and escape the scorns and trappings of life, and have the confidence to say that everything that is temptation, I am tempted within this moment and nothing else. It is mine alone to conquer. How sweet. And then I find myself in the abyss. All the sudden, I have done exactly what I set out to prevent. That is the problem with transcendence. How dreadful.

As we jest and frolic with the wind, we find exactly in the wind its danger, its judgment and most of all, its indeterminacy. It comes as it goes. Every movement made, in relation to my flesh and finitude, I do it with a certain determinacy. That is the trap. That is the trap that I have to escape. The irony is that I conceived it. That which gives me the embryoic joy is simultaneously my deadly bane.

How can one sleep with such despair?!

I cannot imagine Job in his waking, seven days with a confidant to listen to his silence. I am no Job. I cannot be eager to prove my right. Do not be eager to serve me. Do not be eager to judge me. But make haste that you do not come near me. until the moment ends. if it ends.

Do not fall in love.

Falling is the worst and best possible way to enter this moment.
But falling also has the potential to show us a different perspective. Perhaps, it is the differance I am looking for, and looking at right now.
It allows me to make haste and move to the next unknown stage. The leap will happen. After this trial of probation. When it happens, without turning it into another abyss of time and space, my letters shall cease. In fact, this is my last. Thank you my reader. For you have given me hope to believe that I can simultaneously be part of a moment and be out of it. Take what you can. Press my invisible hands and find me both there and not. At least we come to an understanding that no one is alone in the moment of life and death. We proceed and endure, despite the deaths and births of many. To live, is precisely the potential to be saved, as long as we hang on to our lives. Let us not recollect or repeat. Let us be really quiet and the wind will blow us to what we belong. The wind will carry the love messages to their intended destinations. One exercises faith not through what could be planned and understood. Faith is as mysterious as murdering your own son for God. You don't talk about it.

Yours,
Nameless Friend.

ONCE.

the gush came too late,
the flow should never reach,
the rush went with fate,
the glow I can't preach.
you're just like everyone.
you're just like anyone.
you want to run away.
you want to find a way.
a whirl came too early,
a twirl should always rock
a flip came too curtly
the last book was locked
a field has been abandoned
the seats are empty
the runaway train must stop
the seats are still empty
taking time to remember this
taking time to remember this
maybe we'll be there
where words cannot lift us to
air.
pure water.
you went too fast for me
I couldn't keep up with you
I'm still
too still and silent
I'm breaking for the pause I need that always come with long breathes and sentences
let me be still
let me be silent
I'm breaking
will you pick up the pieces some other time?
But,
I can't keep up with you.
I can't go back.
release this grip, whoever masters my heart
I'm in your debt,
when will I learn?
Let it go,
the river will flow,
upstream
back to where waters come from.
flashbacks.
wind.
who blows?
from whence
the day
longer than I expect
falling slowly,
the rainbow, a blur in the sky
I'm in love,
will be in love
once,
once,
once,
I'll listen to the melody on your behalf
the hills will listen with me
when you have closed your eyes
will you shine with me,
maybe not
somewhere, in parallel lines
we'll not meet
I'll be patient
you'll be patient
sorry, you have to see
the strength inside me,
burning... ... ... ...
this way, that way,
i may leave a trail,
which I will follow
return to the spot we met,
the blue covered clouds
my blanket while I slept.
the mornings will be cold.
but we will be warm
very warm
longer than it takes
but it's always longer than it takes
as we compose our tapestry of voices
a distance, far
looking for us,
our voices are looking for us.
taking time to look
taking time to look.
les gouttes de Dieu
we will be forgiven by water
you will always
be special
and then, you're gone,
you're gone.
each flying
to our seperate right and left
if you don't mind
i leave.
leave.
as well.
we were sentimentally happy.
sentimentally happy.
we'll learn
yes we'll learn
calm storms
breaking waters
skipped sceneries
the final train seemed to be taking a long time to pull over
but I appreciated that it lasted so long
so long
I'll pull myself away
this tie, I couldn't escape
mean
mean so much
cruel as it may sound
crashing and breaks screaming!
but we know what they mean.
the end.
there,
the two stories combined
death has been stolen,
lost virtual conversations and traces on the tracks
trains are such heart-wrenching constructs
I leave a tunnel
to find another tunnel
and another
and another
without reaching your heart
my own trembles.
perhaps you know
without my unpost letters
the motif of leaving
it's not because they can't reach
but there are always the mediating factors
I don't trust postmans.
the distance is always there.
how near we were,
but endless
and repetitive
our narratives.
once upon a time.
I once knew,
how to talk to you.
you knew,
how to talk to me.
Once.
not any more.
and somewhere
we lost the rhyme
but it's okay.
cool memories,
how we gaze at each other
scratching the surface of our monologues
how precious they still are,
Once,
we knew where to look for each other.
not any more.
taking time to forget
taking time to forget
but i regret to say
i won't
each day
taking time to regret
taking time to regret
I will
either way
say it now,
as if it is my violent last resistance
dragging
say
no matter
try hard to work this out
and still say
despite so many misunderstood and doubts
one thing will never change
no melodies here, and rhymes
this is no poetry
I will say it now -
I loved you.
I loved you.
I loved you.
I love you.
I died.



Once (OST).

this is the second letter that was not posted by the author. I have taken the liberty to post it here.

odd, that despite the death of the author, I should stumble upon these virtual letters written by him, such that I feel compelled to post them for the sake of clarity. I could not agree that these letters are eulogies and requiems. The sentimentality that is embedded in the texts is too deep to allow such a accidental end which would ruin that romantic notion I have of his texts if I had framed them as eulogies. Death, ultimately is white. Every black insistence on death is that resistance to death, and the desire to outlive a cruel and blessed destiny. But the blackness, which simultaneously gives life (of fantasies, imaginations, dreams, etc.) and destroys life (theories, conclusions, endings, etc.), also highlights the deep whiteness of death. White alone does not give itself up as a reading of death. Instead, it is the writing and reading of black on white that shows us how deadly white is. While it is often suggested and somehow true that black is the infinite unknown, instead, why can't the infinite white that screams at you be also a sinister thing? Black almost discourages writing (or possibility) unless you write with white. But white, is like a temptation that never tells you what you are tempted of specifically. Instead it is the temptation to create ex nihilo. Nothing is more fearsome and scary than writing. More often than not, we are tempted to create monsters. Hence, you tremble at the thought of facing nothingness straight in your face. It is so white that you cannot find depth to it, in contrast to black. Perhaps, it is this particular understanding of writing, that in my reading of his letters, I felt the odd sense to give it its natural end, that is the publication of death. While I understand the cruelty in that, it is a necessary evil. If we do not face death face-on, it is to mean that one has not truly lived. The despair that comes with creation ex nihilo is that sense in which you know you are creating on the backdrop of death - you know that at the moment of creation, the creation faces death. Nothing is as real as that. As I write, as it is being written, I am fully prepared to give the words up. I cannot remember them. To read what I have written, is to face it at a different sense of the text. It is simultaneously mine and not mine. This sensation can only be understood after one no longer finds it a despair to write. What keeps writing perpetually around is its capacity to die. Writing gives itself up to writing. Nothing is more violent and productive as writing. That is why the virgin birth of writing is almost impossible. Instead, one discovers our human-ness through writing, the allegory of our creation and destruction. To be born is to be dead. Hence, the born-again is always that which occurs as a post-event of our first death. Pure writing marks us as separate. To write is to shed blood. Having shed all the blood one can have, the only possibility is to die. But we must also understand, his letters were written not because he wanted death alone. The word is always that which produces as much as it destroys. What writing does, ultimately is to teach us about this basic principle of divisions, that each moment of emancipation of writing - as writing appears, we divide the word. We kill as much as we conceive. So when I read his letters, I cried without knowing if it was sadness or happiness that motivated the endless tears. One receives. Nothing can describe that gift. We just receive. Instead of classifying the gift, we are only aware that we are thrust into the whirlpool of the Word, and we chance upon something so wondrous, that only silence can be that moment. You don't talk about it. Birth and Death is not even what matters. Silence is a posteri. It is that which never performs. It is to be otherwise than being dead or alive. We escape from writing. Neither white nor black can touch us. Silence is the holy spirit.

this first letter was part of a collection of drafts found in this blogger account. The owner has since relinquished all control of the account to me. I will post them as and when I feel it deserves coverage, instead of just existing as drafts.

by the way,
the author of the blog no longer exists.

http://infiniteclouds.blogspot.com/

open to only invited guests.
please email dasparadies@gmail.com for invitations.

strictly for those who are prepared to be challenged.
blogger has every right to refuse requests.

a differant poem

to die, many deaths, i made a difference.
to live, many lives, i made a difference.
with you, i tried.
without you, i tried.

it seems, yesterday, when two years went.
it seems, tomorrow, when two years never come.
with you, a difference.
without you, a difference.

your particular sleeping curve didn't change.
your visual field, a line, like mine, a field of rainbows,
bestowed, blessed, was this journey, to be, and to not be.
with you, a differance
without you, a differance

i'll pretend, friend, just friend,
take me seriously, no one is nearby, I am not there, any more,
disappearance is not a difference.
empty presence is.
with I, a difference
without I, a difference.

so this, just a sudden appearance, a poem that is not a poem,
it is, but a fleeting trace of yesterday,
and a bubble burst today
(there will be no tomorrow)
with love, a difference
without love, a difference

i've said nothing much, I won't leave myself to kill myself
i live when it is finally impossible to die.
so i wish, you meet, someone older than I am,
someone who has some magic
and buys the groceries on your list without you showing the list.
with words, a chore
without words, a chore.


someone else, to love you,
someone, not I, who died.
i can't keep up, appearances,
this appearance, sudden.
a last post?
when you see this,
I would have made another difference.
with difference, a differance.
without difference, a












(it's another d word.)

I told you I'd make a differance.

It's a difficult decision to make.

I've decided that by the end of this entry, I'll close this blog.

Blogging is a paradoxical activity - one that simultaneously reveals and veils what a person thinks
What you see is a face, a trace of what he or she is - only that it is possible that this trace can take a life of its own, performs itself, and takes over its origin.

But blogging has this other edge that allows me to express what other media fail to. It is a desert that compels me to write; to write like I have never written before. I am grateful, for the many nights that it has accompanied me and convinced me to vomit out the words that clogged up my vessels.

However, blogging assumes that the blogger has something to express, something to present, or something to showcase to the public domain.
I increasingly realise that I don't. I increasingly realise that my words fail me. I am ashamed that I cannot play a single musical instrument. I find music more apt in expressing my thoughts. At the core of my explanation is this thing called the question.
What else can I write? Who am I writing for?
There is nothing in my words that lead you or I to me.

These words, will remain here as monuments of things past. When Proust left his words, I do not believe he left his soul behind. When Socrates wrote nothing, I believe he left his spirit behind.
This spirit I call absolute question.
When there is no first-hand account of yourself - in some sense, you live on.
People repeat us, misguided, repressed, but you live in ways you can never imagine.
Memories shouldn't be written out.
It's murdering the moment.
It's giving birth to new moments.
And I'm uncomfortable with words.
Because they are published here, I somehow take responsibility for my words.
I'm not Socrates. I don't go around striking dialectical conversations.
I can't be a Socrates. My words are like my sins. I can't stop writing. I regret that I can't be a Socratic.

But instead of writing here, I've decided to write somewhere else. Somewhere I can have this private conversations with myself and the spirits around. It doesn't have to be a blog.

In a way, it is my violent resistance to stop being the present I. There is something liberating and free about writing. There are slippages you cannot control. There are interpretations you cannot prevent. Therefore, the only way to stop being the many I-s out there, I have to remove myself, absolutely.
Perhaps, this in itself produces a new trace. A trace that haunts us. A reminder of how obscure and romantic a person I presented myself to be here. (and melancholic). Truth is, I can be exact opposite of these descriptors if the situation calls for. Or can I?
The dark world where I face God, is a world that I refuse to reveal. This is as far as I go to describe it. Darkness. Right now, I'm making the conscious decision to pursue that path. Therefore, whatever here is a disturbance, a distraction, a wayward detour that must end someday. Now is the time. Each time I venture to end, it seems to get shorter. This must be the fourth blog I will close. And I realise that each closure is like a mark of a change. An often drastic one.
I was an absolutely ignorant idealist in my first blog.
I was a romantic, melancholic emo-boy in my next.
I was an aesthetical and ethical contradiction in my previous blog.
And here, this blog, I was a passive nihilist who desired to disappear behind his words - and utterly failed in that task.

I am excited and sad. Excited to find out what I will become. Sad that I have to leave many things behind at this stage. but if I am to follow the doctrine of Kierkegaard, it seems, leaps of faith, movements, stages of selves, are as inevitable as life and death.
Each radical leap is not an absolute change. You don't just shed everything you were. You evolve. Only confession and salvation have that absolute eternal effect. Otherwise, every stage of your life is the maturing of the previous. Nevertheless, it is a radical leap because one is no longer comfortable being a Has-been. One continues to be - being.
But really, who cares about metaphysics here?
The journey that I have taken since young has multiple sad regressive plus excited progressive movements. I am humbled each time.
Continue to humble me, Word.
I just don't write them now. I want to live them.
I sever all connections. with quivering and a deep melancholy. I have never quite expressed what these connections were. But it doesn't matter now. Forgive me, words.

I chopped down the two-year-old trees.
I shall be the clouds.
And you won't find me.

This blog remains as a monument of what had been, of what failed to touch - because they could never do so.

i cherish.
but I also promised.
hence,






















let it truly be the last,





















the first empty space (of desert)
became
the second empty space (of the sky)
but they're never empty.
I move.

i will make a difference.
i will make a differance.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.

we can't fall in love,
but alike pushing a variety of flowers to each other, (never the same),
we will die if we touch.

it's...odd that I should say 'No' to a young girl.
especially when she asked if I was going to church tomorrow.

I can't describe it.

Fable - Truth

Words begin the words that you see here
of which lines organize the words,
but these lines, one after another,
do nothing, but pile up one after another
in a tolerated way.
it is both I, the writer and the reader simultaneously,
that judges my own difficulties.
and tolerated them.

(after 2 minutes of misfortune, the mirror is held up.)

against Francis Ponge.
(text reproduced below)

With the word with begins then this text
Of which the first line states the truth.
But this tain under the one and the other
Can it be tolerated?
Dear reader already you judge
There as to our difficulties

(After seven years of misfortune
She broke her mirror)

--

There is no Other.
Perhaps,
we fail to ackowledge how widespread and deep narcissism is.
The mirror can never be broken. The silver lining is hidden from us, within us, there, always there, you can break it, but you can never undo it. Unless you die.
Memory is the glass.
Each broken piece cuts. Narcissistic wounds, infinitely widen at each recalling of the Other.
There is no tangible other. It is all an imagination. The Other appears, vis-a-vis
as Words.
of which, a question mark, a mark, hides in between words. Those are the Others. Before the mark begins I.

5 centimetres.

隆貴：明里。おいしい。
明里：熱の焙じ茶だよ。
隆貴：焙じ茶？初めて飲んだ。
明里：うそ。絶対飲んだことあるよ。
隆貴：そうかな。
明里：そうだよ。それからこれ、私が作ったから味の保障はないんだけど、よかったら食べて。
隆貴：ありがとう。お腹すいてたんだ、すごく。
明里：どうかな？
隆貴：今まで食べた物の中で、一番おいしい。
明里：大げさだな。
隆貴：本当だよ。
明里：きっとお腹すいてたからよ。
隆貴：そうかな。
明里：そうよ。あたしも食べようと。引っ越し、もうすぐだよね。
隆貴：ん、来週。
明里：鹿児島か。
隆貴：遠いんだ。栃木も遠かったけどね。
明里：帰れなくなっちゃったもんね。
駅長：そろそろ閉めますよ。もう電車もないですし。
隆貴：はい。
駅長：こんな雪ですから、お気をつけて。
２人：はい。

5 centimetres or 500 kilometres apart, I believe, if we should meet again,
after our respective departures,
we will still have the most mundane and senseless conversation:

How are you?
Classic today?
Ai jia si mi?
You decide.

Thank you ...
fast ah you.
prays.
Amen

It won't change. Perhaps, that is the only thing that would never change.
Everything else will.
I'll start writing letters to no one.
I'll start writing drafts in my mobile's outbox.
I'll start collecting photos.
I'll start zipping songs.
I'll blog about imagined occasions.
If I've not already done so.

when I'm at my limit, I like to stop and run away.
Be on a train,
and travel far away
maybe that's why I'm so desperate to leave. Maybe that's the only reason.
To run away. To go to a place where no one knows me. To a place where new images are discovered everyday.
That is not the solution. I know. But nothing moves me now. Except those haunting images.

I promise this will be the last. The last time. the last image. The last conversation.
flashbacks take less than a second.
Some other things take a longer time.
like plane flights.

明里：あの、隆貴くん。隆貴くんは、きっとこの先は大丈夫だと思う。絶対。
隆貴：ありがとう。明里も元気で。手紙書くよ。電話も。

maybe.

but you'll definitely be fine.

memory is faith is memory

memory -
remember your sins, transgressions, the inherited original sin
remember the redemption
= salvation

every step, every act, is an act of remembering to forget.
faith, hence is to respond subjectively, the accumulation of memories that significantly shape your make-up. If there is no rupture, the confession, of which a realisation of sin prior to the confession

but memory is progressively malleable. You perpetually make new memories.
Judgment is predicated on the notion that your actions are remembered at the end.

tree/cloud - conversations

since words fail me, I'll let sounds and images relate.

let's begin with a note on ascendency -
they don't stay up there for long.

let's try the forest ground. some solid base to return to.
Yotsuba&!'s fans will get this!
don't be fooled. Behind every robotic disguise is a human remote control.


who controls who? who brings the good news? or tidings of misfortune?
nevertheless, it is an image of peace, hope and mandalas. safe, in the knowledge that the message will arrive. will it?
speaking of mandalas, wouldn't it be cool to ask mr Moon to come down and laze with me? back to the ground again. The moon is not really round you know. Pimples scars everywhere. Just like my face. craters everywhere. ignore that. This moment is about a change of visual perspective. I'm looking up, from below.

let's go back up to the skies.
I'm looking down, from above.
Wouldn't it be nice to stay up there? even if it's only for a brief moment?
it's as brief as a picture of "Boom!"
as long as you stare hard at it, it never escapes you.
but let us be a little more optimistic.

back on Earth,
I'm waiting for the fireworks. I promise it will be spectacular!


then again, I have this love/hate relationship with fireworks. Memories are sweet. But in between sweet memories, are these circular capsules that I find hard to forget.
As soon as they light up, as soon as they explode! Spectacle never lasts.
traces remain. Don't stand too close, they burn. wait for them to cool down.


are you coming my way? the fireworks festival has already ended.
but I'm still waiting. The circles keep moving.

I thought I saw your shadow.
sorry, I left when the postman came. He didn't see my letters. They're still in the drawer. I don't dare to write them. I don't dare to send them.
Are you waiting?
I was waiting, but my birthday wish was never fulfilled. Sorry we disappoint.

I can now understand why people like to ask their families and friends to scatter their ashes.
It's not always because micro-parts of them can reside in flowers and return to this world as particles, scattered to places faraway, never to gather again. It is also for them to participate in this ritual of remembering, to forget that they were once whole, but are now reconstituted into a larger collective. Somewhere, they can become flowers. They can become clouds. They can become blue, white, green...
I would like to be green too.
but sometimes, we don't always get what we want. No matter. Nothing is as powerful as being a trace. Always different. Always unexpected.
I become a pre-fix of a new trace. This collective doesn't bother to trace the trace. It cannot. Traces always escape - like ashes.



if you have a choice, would you like to be the clouds or the flower? The sky or earth?
I would like to be the line that seperates them.


the horizon is where I hope to be found. An intermediary that is in between presence and absence. I am an imaginary line. But you cannot deny my existence. I am there. In front of you.
Watching evaporation; condensation. (is it my obsession to trap, bind, hold traces in lines, boundaries and barriers?)

let's just say, I'm actually just a glass bottle. Keep me gently. But place me where the sun will shine. Where the rain will pour. Where there will be a gentle wind in the afternoon. But keep me indoors when it is night and the storm is coming. Boundaries can be fragile.

I'll repay you with a nice green rain.

thank you.

as I sleep. as the colours fade. don't forget your umbrella. don't forget your boots. I will come back some day. as rain, a drizzle, just a gentle drizzle, and a wet breeze. refreshing but nostalgic.

it's getting darker. But there's always tomorrow. The birds are flying home. The birds are leaving home.



this is how tomorrow will look like. You should look from the bottom. Maybe. you should have your own lines. Maybe. and I call them the imaginary rainbow. (I shouldn't attach a picture of a rainbow.)
Instead.
somehow, the images will eventually turn into a picture perfect image called memory. Pictures perfect. Just isolations of an explosion. A frozen frame?

it doesn't matter which falls first. They all fall. Perhaps. Not always at the same time, un-Galileo like. but doesn't matter. We all take our own sweet time. That's the word. Sweet. sweetness is the aftertaste most desired. That is what makes memories so precious.
But really. Forget horizons; forget lines. Forget trees or clouds. Forget the sky or the ground.
Remember to forget, repeatedly
it is beautiful. The lights. or the lack of. or the spectrum. all that elusive shades that I have no proper names for. Hence, at some point, I close my eyes. Obliterate the images.

And we are safe.

Kami-sama will forgive God will forgive Yahweh will forgive me;
there is a graciousness when it comes to entrances and exits
there is a faith that waiting will be worthwhile.
despite the tremors and failings of the plant
(I can't help it when the tremors and failings occur)
perhaps,
you'll catch my smile as I disappear backstage
through the sky where light barely illuminates
even Waiting for Godot has an end.
the wait happens when you have been told beforehand to wait - faith is memory.
this performance ends.
*cue to clap and smile*

no music is playing tonight except Shugo's album - Exit; Parachute. and one last image. =)

to be continued...

i f my wo r ds do o ff en d
if my p r e s e n ce d o irr i ta t e
fo r g i ve m e
i k n o w n ot w h a t fr ie n d sh i p is
so the y ca n go.

>>>>> listen to Green Rain - Shugo Tokumaru
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
if it rains
again, can the wind blow as well?
tonight's rain had that little naughty sense to it
like a playful child, skipping through a green field
with yellow wildflowers
*0* .......
!!!!!_______________________________*/*____*/*_______?______________??

we can feel a little different this evening,
we can be a little less protective
I wish I laugh a bit harder
I wish I smile a little harder >@< style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">
and the gnomes will appear,
...............................................................& & & & & & &
and bring us to their dessert store
and we can laugh
as hard as we can
for that moment
もっとふたりで
if only.

span style="font-style: italic;">enters someone else./span

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%******A | Y******%
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%******%
%***%
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|/
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& & & &A._______________||_______________& & &Y.

|<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

end with 5A.M.(tears below the freezing point) - Shugo Tokumaru>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>sorry>>>>>>>>>>buried<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
<><><<<<><<<<<<<<<<<<><><><><<<<><><><><><><><>><><><>

outside,
was there life?
it probably withered away
inside,
was there life?
it was probably taken down

i can't draw,
i can't paint,
i can't make great images
i can only sit down, relax and disappear (as if)
i daydream.

as it becomes less,
something becomes more,
where are you?
outside the frame
inside another frame
i drift.

Not I - part II

till now, i know not,
what not is,
that negates
and negotiates what is
first positive,
first mine;
or is it?

till now, I know not,
if you, are, referring to
who?
that negates,
who are 'I's.
but still within one.
divided.

even so,
if I may, if I could,
dance with my body,
I would, not, be able to be outside my body
except, to conceive a body,
(immediately a body that is not mine and I'm constantly learning how to move with it)
[still, my body]
and dance that meaningless dance.
and somehow,
express that which are spiritual.

and so, if I may guess, egoistically,
then I shall say,
no, write,
that 'you' was me,
not,
that I am, neither,
there, nor here,
but always belated,
always that is left behind,
untamed by chance,
tamed by dogma.
simply, something that I can, not determine,
alone.

leaving
nothing, un-negated,
that positively speaking,
no, writing,
I am doing neither.
I am divided, always,
into colours, no,
sounds that are
horrible, peaceful, mysterious, childish, noisy, grand and silent,
which you should, not, mixed, in a generalised way,
but they
like trumpets, guitars, pianos, saxophones, violins, drums and mute
either make sense, or not.
either produced
by me,
or not.
in the mind, it fades; they fade.
my voice, so quiet
I can't hear myself too.

which leaves me,
with nothing much to see.
to say, no, to write. no, to hear.
so you will be blind,
if you look with my eyes.
insane, angry, sad, very sad, happy, very happy
if you read my mind
but most of all, I am, but a child,
trapped in a body that is mine, wholly mine.
and to sense,
is but, to negate everything that can be sensed
and to imagine
is but, to negate everything that can be imagined

somewhere then, you wish you know nothing
about,
the things I despise
the things I envy
the things I sin
the things I am, am not.
but most of all,
who I am

and not.
it is not 'I', is it?

but it is still 'I'
capable of imagining that 'I'.
whose I?

not.
read.



everything (bad) happened
when the EYE, opened, and saw each other's nakedness
Words, naked, bare naked,
with only, leaves, to cover, like cover pages,
paper, to deceive,
but unable to resist, that of imagination,
of lustrous desires
that which Eros, tainted, can devour
violence repeated,
and so,
voices, of them, of Him,
they hid, we hid, from.
forgotten,
not forgotten,
the Word, became,
seen,
as performances,
repeated
divisible,
visible,
but never do we, quite get it.
if we, not,
f
a
l
l,

plunged into a certain threshold
attended to like a sparrow,
cushioned,
after,
but before, not.
it is the irrevocable end, that judges us,
but it is the beginning, already begun,
that spins us,
into a leap,
throws us,
into a perception never before experienced,
(remembered)
so reading kills (to my detriment)
as I have discovered
black comes to the fore
and white,
as backdrops,
that screams back as absence
only more evident.

suspend this for a moment
and think of spirit, if possible
not spirit,
but spirit.
then the fall
is no longer a human fall
but a floating sensation,
a limbo,
a suspension
perhaps, still a punishing gravitational pull
somewhere in between space and Earth
between Evil and Good
but it's not dialectics
it is aurora,
it is rainbow
it is an experience no metaphor can fully represent
it is in between your flesh and the air you breathe, (a thorn?)
it is nebula,
it is falling through a cliff deep inside a ocean
it is pressure,
profound pressure
of love
that drives you insane, supposedly
as if you are a sparrow metamorphosing into an eagle.
only not quite, not Enoch yet,
always not yet, perhaps already is,
but not, not what you think, not what I wrote,
not what we think or write
it is that which always eludes us
that is why
it is so compelling, so heart-wrenching,
that drives us to tears and secret smiles
that pulls us from certain disaster
and only nothing, nothing in its most powerful way,
can seperate us from this experience
precisely by making us go through it
from beginning to end
in the end,
it is not,
never what you imagined, thought, read, etc.
it is 70 % water, 30 % land, like bodies
evaporated and condensed,
multilated, pierced, bloody mess, till none left as water
perpetually.
or not.
it is an ascension,
we cannot even dare to imagine.
it is trembling...
every night, i tremble.
every sin, I tremble.

it is not,
so easy.
to see with my Eye.
or dance
my dance.
i bleed each night, when I write.

I is not i.
(that is my key doctrine. or was it Beckett's? or Paul? or?)

---

Was 'You' referring to 'I'? in a literal way?
or is it not?
it is puzzling.

look up ^


in the beginning, was division.
in the beginning, there were, are trees.
all trees are different.
but the roots sometimes touch

it's sad how one can slowly eliminate the people who you once thought understood you.
one by one, you cross out the names
(I bet I've been crossed out too)

in that case, we will always be alone,
except that somehow, we are actually tied in ways unknown, unseen, hidden.
that is implicit in the struggle to be.
perhaps, (just probably), all we have are expressions of a same theme.
but let's be more specific.

who you think are naturally your best friends, buddies, beings of the same kind (of soft spots), may turn out to know you the least.
Enemies, in fact, the best enemies who stand against everything you fight for, may in a perverse or ironic way, be exactly everything that you are, and believe in.

I may have forgotten how to dance (with words?);
I may have forgotten how to make good friends;
But I certainly make the best enemies
because I believe, the swerve, the anti-thesis of everything the other posits,
is my way of engaging in a lifetime of questioning what is implicit in the division of self, of everyone around us, and the final; the end, the blood flushed across our faces, which marks us.

if my words do offend, do not pardon me
but try as you might, come to questions of your own
it is an odd way to be,
but one can never learn to love, if they don't know how to hate
that is the only thing, if I should leave a mark in this world, that I want to leave.
that of ugly beautiful.
i hate myself.

latte, mi-te, the green rain is cooling the earth, our earth.
my room, sucking from a plastic straw, who is sitting beside me?
letters, unpurloin-ed, there must be someone who can help me read them.
i fight to remember the words I had written
but i can't.

exit, lucid, the way is as clear as chance, calculated and thorough.
my space, squarish-looking receptacle, and plain to the eye.
I made a mistake, the rain is not green, I imagined it.
i fight to remember the words I had imagined
and I can.

musik, lasik, my brain has been fried by Shugo Tokumaru, Shugo who?
a name, a Poe, a Dupin and a Shugo + Yoko, that's all there is to my afternoon.
The rain is not green, but the leaves of a tree swaying to the green wind is.
i fight to reach out to it with my mind
but i can't.

john, the restroom sure is far away, but I'll go, in a while.
eat, read, there isn't much a differene if you think about it.
something green to go with them, when will the sun shine again?
i fight to learn what I have to learn,
and I can.

there comes a point where there are too many words
that is the point to reach.

(my words are dying...)

what is the question?
why are we obsessed with the Question?

I feel like a moth, uncontrollably attracted to the light.

burnt the next instant, being too close to the flame.

be near,
be here,
the words
far away
from here,
there,
somewhere
where time is not experienced
here,
sometime later we'll be there,
where?
there,
where bridges fall,
where seas dry up,
where mountains erupt.

am I alone,
you bet,
I am
what are the chances we'll meet?
you?
as much chance as you and I had when our parents gave birth to us.

so what's the fuss?
what's the hurry?
Haven't words delayed us long enough?
take it slow, take it easy,
haven't words obliterated us enough?
I'm glad I'm born to die.
after every waking dream.

It's weird how some regard me as this lighthouse, who in the dark of the night, would show some unknown but safe path in which they can be safe in the knowledge that my light won't fade or sway away.

how ironic.

that despite that impression I give to them, I can't be both the lighthouse and the person threading a path at night.

I'm not being boastful here because i find it extremely perplexing that I should take up that responsibility.
I am faced with a dilemma - between my personal emotions and their emotions who could somehow depend on me to listen to them and also be a pillar of strength.
I don't have a deep sense of duty or eloquence, to be that important a figure in their lives.
But indeed they regard me as so and I'm confused that they do.
It is like giving me the choice between Chopin and Rachmaninov - between the soft and the dramatic

Perhaps I'm just the most unromantic person around, who can only smile when I notice how Derridian a moment is.
Perhaps I notice things that are unromantic and will very blatantly tell you so.
Perhaps it is just my high sensitivity and pathos that makes me unappealing when I attempt to be a Don Juan, but appealing as a pulpit fireband preacher who tells you things you don't understand. Someone who remains somewhere else.

They have this weird sense of who I am.
Perhaps I carry a smirk all the time.
What they do not know is that behind this egocentric smirk is a heart-wrenching nihilism that eats me up. Externally I am a Mona Lisa. Internally I am a Munch's scream.

Perhaps I just love silence too often.
"To die in peace: to die without words" - Edmond Jabes

Silence is this void that demands speech, sound, or anything to fill this deadly silence.
What is more dreadful?
A dark room or a room entirely silent?
I can go mad in a silent room. But that is where I can be closest to Him.

I speak that you may recognise it as mine, and then again it seems so anonymous that it obliterates both of us.

Silence is that loud thunder that comes only after a lightning - it is in between lightning and thunder.
Silence is the passivity of the moment, ripe for birth and death;
it invites us to die and give birth at the same time. The moment I speak, I am alive and dead.
Everything that is not said, not written, is this silence. It is that absence that ties the dark and dirty words together. It is the presence of whiteness, pure obliterating, indiscrimating force that demands all the time.
It is the voice I run away from. Hence it is also the silence of the voice that pulls me back.
When there is darkness, I can only depend on silence. I can only tremble and fill up that silence with the gnashing of my teeth.
Silence is the peaceful death, after the murder has already been committed.
Silence is the sword wielded as indifference, a weapon of political struggle, the aufhebung of opposing forces.
Silence is question that demands.

So much for mediatations of silence.
it still does not answer the question of this bind that I find myself in.

"Because I listen." yea. for silences.
for quiet, and often dark motivations. infidelities. sin. lust. that which can murder without having to draw real blood.

I listen because I listen, every night, in that silent void, between waking and dreaming, out of time and space, a sense of the ultimate other, where I am and am not.

I cannot live not listening. I used to think I would go mad if I went blind. Fair enough. But I will be murdered if I can't listen. And the greatest gift I can ask for is to listen to silence.
Pockets between sound, where we don't listen, when we don't listen, which in fact we do. Every pause is that key to somewhere deeper. Somewhere we choose to veil.
And I'm standing at the somewhere else. Always the someone else.

Maybe, that's why I'm suffering from this role I play to a few. I am thankful I can be there to listen.
but who will be the one to listen to me? who can really listen to my gaps of silence? Who can partake in my supper?
It is not that I do not wish to share. But I cannot express it. Once I do, I immediately do injustice to it.

But that is not what it is about.
it is about coming to an understanding, a reason why there remains a few who regard me as important in a sense that they cannot explain. This is just my attempt to make sense of this situation I find myself in. I don't really like it because almost none does the listening back.
But it just is.

Forgive me whenever I snap, whenever I feel intolerant or depressed by that intolerance. Or when I resist this relation I find myself in. It is a helpless situation.

I find this dilemma more perplexing when I am simultaneously courting appearance and disappearance. They contradict. It is to appear as a lighthouse, but at the same time, wish I could just be that dark path that the light does not shine on.

If, they could but not walk the lit path and venture into that darkness, that is where they will truly find me. But that is also where they would never venture to. In the end, it might just be that loneliness that troubles them, and I become that answer; a connection conjured up from somewhere. And I am at that somewhere, presently.

But that might be too cynical of me. I know for some they are genuine friendships that I will treasure forever. However, one is often trapped by confusion, when definitions are thrown out of the window and doors are shut. How often can we hear the best harmonious symphonies? Perhaps, I am at fault for being who I behave in front of them. Perhaps, there is no perhaps but as mentioned before, it just is. Where I am that intervention of life that uplifts them in a way, either to my benefit or detriment. But if we smile over glasses of teh, why not?


For someone to venture into darkness and to find me there, one must be silent alongside me.
When that happens, she will be the one I love -- as if that love would mean anything to anyone....sigh.

It is just that egocentric me, screaming.
And my frightening, trembling cold me, staring back, silently. (You won't want to meet him)

uncle specs
glass of teh
book at hand
and some baggy shorts
unmatching flip flops
and a gigantic plastic bag
that's all there is to it.
that's all I am with.


someone else will make you happy.

.

i can't smile.
even when all the books are finally nicely placed on my new bookcase.

dream

she walked me home, a reverse order, and with that indescribable smile, she left.
I hestitated. and I ran down the stairs to catch up to her.
there she was, on a bench, humming a song I have not heard before; talking to him.
I knelt beside her, as if that was all too natural. I couldn't hear what I told her.
and it ended.

ready, aim, fire.
ready: that which is ideal
aim: that which is the projection towards the ideal
fire: that which is puke.

Mary had a little lamb.

easier for her to be without one.

awful to take away
awful to give her one
just let her be
the little lamb will grow up.

I, can only wish, to write like, Beckett, only, possessing me, no spirit, no life, just fingers, typing, then, there will be answers in the typing, and not, the product that comes with a plan, but the meanings are discovered during the process, and as the words flow, my mind, branches off to unimaginable places, bringing, spreading the fruits and seeds, easier that people do not see them, and I can cry alone on my bed, even if I am left alone, I'm never alone, if no one could listen, then I'll listen to myself, whisper words I never heard before, I heard so often, with you, near, always, I speak and hear my own voices, then we can imagine, no worlds in between, but just the suspended dream that I have no wish to fulfill, little by little, the wind I believe in so much, even if it knows my name, I'm pinned to the wall, and I see, birds fly, maybe it's all a little too painful, but it's so liberating, to know someone who bothers to carry me up, and I can rest easy, knowing I have the attention, myself as audience, time will not mean much, this is when I realise I'm so alive, then the wind will be so cooling, the rain will wash away my sweat, and I will refuse to say anything more, for they have been spoken before, the story has been told before, I'll leave it to patience, the patience that suffers the overflowing words, without reading in between, but staring at the black void, spaces of infinity, then you find yourself staring back, screaming back at you, in front, then a pat on the back, you hug with such strength, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, no more, we find things overloading, no space, there is no more left to spare, to spare a thought, I can't save you, I can't save myself, I cannot pretend, no longer, my brain is falling apart without a skull, and there is no one, still no one, after the hug, the warmth lingers, but it's fading, return is imminent, but when? the wait is long, the fig tree can withstand, chimes, bells, hang some on me, play a music I have never heard before, then the wind will come again, and lift me high, the words will slowly mean nothing, but the joy that comes from not understanding, shall, ever again, bring me words to say to you, they burn with something I cannot describe, but we'll be happy, not now, but we will, sleep now, o, hanging me, now there is no one to listen, no one to watch, but rest assured, there won't be oriental drums, I won't cry this time, before we end this, before, always before, before the inevitable storm, rage! the implosion happened long time ago, residue, that which is the end, these words, form, Gestalt is not even imaginable, and we will somehow feel our way through, through light, with black darkness, and come so close to the Tree of Life, that we taint it, fire will engulf again, and burn again with renewed virtuosity;
on the surface of water, near a beach, as if, nothing ever happened before, except that fullness, that is the point; there comes a point where there is no return; that is the point to reach.

first note on the piano.

Existential tones.

it's like staring at a to-do-list and you realise you have struck off none.
and you realise how plans are just excuses which are used for procrastination. It is simply the avoidance of that fundamental radical leap that your existence projects towards.
And my lifetime project is to be radical.
(you will not want to know what that constitutes)

I'm growing weary of being a passive nihilist. The advantage and disadvantage of being one is my apparent indifference to everything that proclaims to be true and real.
I only know that what is true and real is depravity.
And I also know that I have since ceased to be motivated to do almost anything.
The books I read are like bricks.
The words I speak are like swallowing my own puke.
The words I hear are like ear wax. They pile up but they are not processed as wisdom.
Increasingly, I clap less.
I stopped being curious.
I smiled at children but they didn't do likewise.
I feel extremely tired and I drag my feet.
I waved to cats and dogs and they ignored me.
I am dragging my body to catch up with just the activity of existing.
I think I know who I am, but others don't.
I am impatient.
I am too patient.
I am like a loaded cannon with gunpowder.
And I am a yellow Volkswagen without a driver to bring me to strange lands.

At the core of it is not even melancholy or despair.
It is my eyesight deteriorating as I age.
I cease being.
I'm going through the motions of being.
I can numb myself with superficialities or intense passions.
But I cannot unbecome myself.
Erasure is the worst concept introduced by deconstruction.
I find answers indeed; Too Many.

My only solace seems to be Ferrer's vocals.
But that's another island I escape to.

There is this big banner in front of me. It reads: "SO WHAT?"

I'm subjectively in an ethical relationship with the Other.
So what?

I aim to finish my p.h.d.
So what?

I want to fall in love, marry and have children.
So what?

Every statement has answers to justify actions that lead to its fulfilment.
But it's that But that lurks beside the central host.
the demand to do presupposes already a suffering; the labour to supply; to provide the effect that the cause demands.
So what?
There is beside the point something entirely in co-existence with me;
yes, I call it the green man.
But he does, with devastating effect, is to remember on my behalf, what I have done and not done.
Nothing escapes him.

I am a tree because,
here I am, all rooted and naked. (not quite)
pretending to take flight to faraway places.
but I am here/there all the same.

I become afraid, nightly.
Of doing.
and not doing.

That is my fear and trembling, that I am blessed with.

he presupposed she would be there when it'd be all over.
he supposes she was there before he arrives.
he will be asking this over and over again
where is she now?
somewhere else
when she eventually leaves
or he leaves
he posthumously supposed he would be away for good.

then.

he doesn't like being teased that this may be the n. time I say goodbye.

the moment is that which presupposes another moment that happened before;
almost immediately
the moment ceases to be the same moment

he doesn't like being told to do what is 'best' for me.
superlatives are the worst invention of language.

how do you measure love?
how do you measure pain?
how do you measure joy?

you certainly asked for it.

the moment is that which escapes me.

I can't stop the flow,
that which tears us apart;
splits us,
and we become bubbles of memories,
remembered and forgotten by the same minds that can imagine

/ / / / / / / / / / / /
all over the place

the moment and the person trapped in the moment are inseparably apart

assuming this ends,
is it then a beginning?
how long can we prolong?
he doesn't like being thrown and tossed by his pathos
he likes being thrown and tossed by his pathos

the moment is implosion!

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
change your perspective

I have one more task at hand.
before my entire self falls as an abyssal swerve of existence;
before I cease to be.
when you become an atomized memory, colliding with my consciousness
and I sigh, thinking how it is possible,
that my soul can never touch you, and hold your hand
towards

the moment is eternal

for once,
think of only me,
alongside
as an invisible presence
who truly
sincerely
earnestly

prays for you

every moment


yours,
(fill in the blanks)

with this,
I give up.

wist the borders of truth,
and find nothing new to know.
all that is left - an acceptance that it's not meant to be.

it is as deep as this.

ahhh
silence creeps in.
stop screaming!

seasons?
reasons to pretend
round and round we go
she chases him
or he stands stationary
but it is an ocular illusion
that spins a tale so real
I seem to move in circles
and I see you
again and again
visions

has it been so long?
seems yesterday
i walked the black forest
seems tomorrow
i'll see you at the Champ-de-Mars
i return daily in a forced
eternity
and i dream of you
again and again
seasons

a conglomeration of images
I can't find you
i fin d m a ny yo u- s
i cant wait to see you again
release myself from this mortal coil
spinning around and brandishing
but really,
i can't violently object
what images to project
what ghosts to exorcise
i am haunted
excuses.

i can't convince myself
you can't convince yourself
so loops we exist
between fake deaths and births
simulating pain
but merely poor cousins
rehearsals for the final act
a return to where we belong
in between the cock and the egg
someone will always be ahead of someone
release me.

This is not Augustine's Confession

Perhaps I have relied too heavily on the notion of determinism to reflect upon every future event, hence tried to find answers where there are none. So to sum it all up, I actually know nothing.
That is the foundation I stand on - a quicksand. And what lies beneath me is that slow death that will finish its destination, eventually. Now. Am I suggesting that it is fatalism then? No. But if the trajectory of our birth to death is fatalism, within that is not determinalism. It can be anxiety, desire or despair, but it is not purely it is. I find then only one possibility left - chance.

What are my chances?

It is they are.
there are in front of me (behind me too) many chances/possibilities.
That is the reason for my melancholy - an indifferent reaction/resistance to movement, work or destination. I cannot go on. But I have to go on.

So if you know what I mean, then you probably find yourself facing the front but moving downwards as well.
I cannot experience out of time and space.
And so the anxiety I have of future time and space is deep. It is that gaze that I cannot turn my head away from. If I ever do that, it is the Orpheus impatience that will certainly be my regret. Or even my death.
If I should pursue my escape so complacently, my waxed wings will melt and surely I will fall.
Either way, death pursues me quicker than my escape.

What do I have left? This foolish thing called Will. That does nothing except to be ego-centric.
That sees nothing except with my eyes.
That hears nothing except with my ears.
That tastes nothing except with my mouth.
That feels nothing except with my skin.
that writes nothing except with my fingers.

How easy it is to be so wrong. How easy it is to just be in the moment and ignore the possibility that it will never be the way our pathetic minds hope for.

what is left is the profound and simple thing call faith - and I wish what I have is a faith on nothing.

The faith that what chance I take, is the chance down the narrow path.

these mediatations still don't give me the courage. when shall I really stop writing...