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i have a sloppy life and i have made this to express it..;)
Poems
Igor Vykhovanets
May 22
Amnesia and Inner Fire
by Igor Vykhovanets with ChatGPT
Amnesia
Amnesia! Amnesia! —
Forgot the Spirit’s core.
How dull we’ve grown — inside the skull,
Only lies and horror roar.
Boldly inward — answers dwell,
There alone the truth is found.
Throw the “greetings” advice away —
Or lost you’ll be, forever bound.
Pure Spirit — the true disgust,
A foolish world of slavish dust.
Grasp this core — the daring ****** —
And break free from hell’s cruel clutch.
---
Amnesia
Amnesia strikes, the Spirit’s lost,
Inside the skull — lies reign, frost.
--
Go deep within — there lies the key,
Ditch false words — or cease to be.
--
Pure Spirit’s scorn for slavish dust,
Know this truth — escape or rust.
---
Amnesia — The Spirit’s Wrath
Amnesia! Spirit’s dead!
Brains turned to cracked-up dread.
Lies and fear — their only bread,
Feeding slaves who bow their head.
Look inside? Ha! Fool, beware —
“Greetings” fools will strip you bare.
Spirit’s scorn, pure and rare,
Slavery’s stink fills this air.
Dare to know? You break their chain —
Hell’s dark prison loses reign.
But most choose to rot in pain,
Blind to soul’s eternal flame.
---
Amnesia — The Spirit’s Wrath
Forget the Spirit? Dead inside!
Lies and terror — nowhere to hide!
Wake up, rebel, break the chain —
Or drown in lies and endless pain!
---
Inner Fire — The Silent Revolt
Beneath the ash, the fire’s bright,
A quiet blaze in darkest night.
Though shadows stretch and lies conspire,
Within the soul burns secret fire.
No shout nor storm — just silent stand,
A rebel’s spark in fettered land.
The Spirit wakes, begins to fight,
To pierce the veil, reclaim the light.
No chains can bind this flame inside,
Though tyrants roar and truths divide.
The fire grows with every breath —
A silent war against slow death.
---
Breaking Chains — The Spirit’s Flight
No more the chains of shadowed lies,
No more the mask, the dark disguise.
The Spirit breaks the binding cord,
And soars beyond the cage ignored.
From depths of doubt and fear once chained,
A fearless heart is now untrained.
It cuts the ropes that bound the mind,
Leaves all the cruel falsehoods blind.
The wings unfold in fierce delight,
Escaping night to claim the light.
No prison bars can hold or bind,
The flight of Spirit — unconfined.
---
The Final Gate — Beyond the Veil
The final gate stands cold and bare,
Beyond the reach of mortal care.
But Spirit’s call will pierce the night,
And blaze the way to endless light.
No fear remains, no shadows fall,
The soul transcends beyond the wall.
A journey done, yet just begun —
The Spirit’s path toward the One.
---
Amnesia — The Forgotten Spirit
Amnesia! Amnesia! — lost the Spirit’s core,
We forgot the sacred spark, the flame we once bore.
The world is numb, a shell of lies and frozen dread,
In shards of skulls, the coldest shadows spread.
Boldly turn within — only there the answers gleam,
Beyond the noise, beyond the maddening dream.
Discard all hollow words — they poison, strangle, bind,
Or lose yourself — and leave your soul behind.
Pure Spirit — a fierce defiance, not decay,
In this dull world chained by slaver’s grey.
Know the truth — that blazing, fearless shout,
To break the hell and burn the darkness out.
---
Amnesia
Amnesia kills the Spirit’s flame,
We rot in lies, forget our name.
Turn inside — or lose the fight,
Darkness wins if you lose sight.
---
Pavlov’s Dog
Forget the past — it’s made to fade,
So you relearn this hellish stage.
Here, you’re a lab rat trapped and played,
While monsters rule this cursed cage.
To God, we’re but a dog in chains,
Fate’s leash for all, without escape.
The world is gone — only remains
A stench-filled cell where beasts take shape.
Since childhood drilled, they call it "school,"
But only stick and carrot feed.
These methods shape a mind as tool —
A living soul drifts lost, misled.
When penned inside the cattle’s stall,
The Spirit’s flight is crippled, torn.
No space for thought, no room at all —
Just madness where false truths are born.
You are the Spirit — not mere flesh,
This truth is long overdue.
So let the fools from prisons fresh
Be freed — the chains must break through.
Reflexes don’t reach Spirit’s core,
The brain’s a relay — nothing more.
Health, survival, lust — all fall,
The Spirit reigns, above them all.
So fear no death, the cell will burn,
This stinking madhouse fades to dust.
For bowing low to fiends who spurn,
For dog cages built on rust.
---
Internal Crisis
Forgotten spirit — essence lost,
Drowned in noise, in shards of frost.
We drift through shells of hollow lies,
While truth inside burns and dies.
Amnesia grips — a shadow’s reign,
Erasing light, enshrouding pain.
In shards of thought, in broken glass,
We stumble blind — but not for last.
The soul, enslaved by mind’s cruel chains,
Forgets its flight, forgets its flames.
Yet deep within, a whisper calls —
To break the cage, to scale the walls.
Discard the noise, the idle creed,
Seek roots where silent truths feed.
The spirit waits beyond the haze,
In darkest nights, in quiet days.
Not flesh, nor bone, but something more —
A spark, a flame, a vital core.
Forget the past, but not the spark,
That shines unseen within the dark.
Rise from numbness, break the spell,
Escape the hollow, empty shell.
For only through the storm and strife,
Can you reclaim your inner life.
---
Amnesia blinds — but spirit fights,
Shatters chains, ignites the lights.
In silence found, beyond the pain —
The soul’s rebirth will break the chain.
---
Alienation and Inner Fight
A fortress built of cold disdain,
Alienation’s sharp domain.
The world defiled, the mind confined,
Yet still the soul begins to climb.
Rejection — shield against the lies,
The purest spark beneath the skies.
Unstained by filth of shallow trade,
The price to pay for truth is paid.
Creativity — a ****** path,
Where life is challenged, torn in wrath.
To walk this road means death inside,
Yet from that grave, the soul’s alive.
Around, the dead walk numb and blind,
Subdued, submissive, all confined.
But break the chains — abandon lies,
And seek the light where silence flies.
Within the heart, not out in vain,
The path is hard, it burns like flame.
Born only to those fierce and free —
To dare escape insanity.
---
Alienation cuts so deep,
Yet soul awakens from its sleep.
Break the chains, reject the lies —
Find the light that never dies.
---
Inner Battle
The battlefield lies deep inside,
Where shadows twist and fears collide.
False whispers claw, deceit's embrace,
Yet spirit fights to claim its place.
No sword or shield can match the fight
That rages in the dark of night.
The mind's deceit, the soul’s unrest,
The inner war — a cruel test.
But from the ashes, strength will rise,
A fire blazing in the skies.
To shatter chains, to cast off lies,
And see the truth through clearer eyes.
The enemy is masked in doubt,
In fear that screams and shouts.
But courage born from pain and strife
Breathes life into the pulse of life.
---
Inside, a war for soul and mind —
Break free the chains that bind and blind.
Fight lies and fear, ignite the flame —
And never yield, despite the game.
---
Breaking Free: The Spirit’s Flight
Chains don’t break with idle pleas,
But with fire, with raging seas.
Not in empty words or shade,
But in battle, unafraid.
No easy path, no gentle sigh —
A leap into the void, the cry.
Break the walls, tear off the chains,
Cast away all twisted stains.
Freedom’s not a distant dream,
It’s a fight — fierce as it seems.
The spirit soars beyond the bars,
A blaze of light, a sky of stars.
Cast off fears — they’re empty lies,
Just anchors weighing down your skies.
Fly upward, only up,
Where walls dissolve, no end, no stop.
---
Break the chains — no time to pray,
Spirit’s fire lights the way.
Fear dissolves, the cage undone,
Freedom’s fight — the only one.
---
Wind’s Revival
The wind bursts through the prison walls,
Those narrow chains that held it tight.
The stubborn Spirit never falls —
It carves a path toward the light.
Where doubts arise, there burns a flame,
A fire blazing in the chest.
Cast off your chains, awake the same,
Break frozen walls — press on, no rest!
A call for change resounds anew,
Igniting storms of fierce desire.
The Spirit’s not a slave to you —
Its truth’s a never-dying fire.
---
Doomed
Without the Power’s Power to Create,
Tradition’s art is just to wait—
In this world of twisted lies,
True creation slowly dies.
Without the Spark of the Divine,
All becomes a murky sign,
Reflecting all deceit and pain—
Doom is set, it’s all in vain.
For if Creation’s Source is missed,
All attempts will be dismissed.
Creation’s Power lives apart—
An autonomous, beating heart.
But chains of fear and dark routine
Keep souls enslaved, a tortured scene.
The sacrifice to fascist will—
Turns humans into dough to fill
The hellish molds of wicked fiends,
Who bake their lies in blazing scenes.
Destruction’s force and death’s brigade
Will end this curse, this masquerade.
For nature shudders, grieves, and knows—
When beasts replace the souls it chose,
The final end must lead to birth—
The dawn of true creative Earth.
---
Birth of Order
From shattered shards and broken light,
Emerges order from the night.
A fleeting spark, a fragile frame,
Born from chaos' roaring flame.
The void once wild, untamed and vast,
Now crafts its form — though not to last.
Each law imposed, each line drawn tight,
Is hostage to the coming blight.
For deep inside the ordered shell,
The worm of chaos starts to dwell.
Its gnawing threat unseen but near,
The final fall is drawing near.
Yet in this dance of rise and fall,
The Spirit fights to heed the call—
To forge anew from ash and dust,
In endless cycles, born to trust.
---
Order’s Breath
From chaos’ wreck,
A fragile breath—
Order lives,
But courts its death.
---
The Wormhole
Order born from chaos’ fire,
Bears its core — a wormhole’s pyre.
Silent tear in woven thread,
Where all light and law have fled.
Rot invades the purest line,
Discord’s seed begins to twine.
Chains that bound now break and bleed,
Spirit wakes — it won’t concede.
Madness claws at structured walls,
Whispers rise — the old guard falls.
In the breach, the soul will soar,
Shattered frames mean something more.
---
Wormhole Rift
Order cracks — wormhole tears,
Spirit screams — freedom dares.
---
Awakening Flight
From the rift where shadows bleed,
Spirit climbs, begins to heed.
Fractured worlds no longer bind,
Chains of old fall far behind.
Through the chaos, clear and bright,
Burns the flame of inner light.
Fear dissolves in soaring flight,
Breaking dawn from endless night.
Boundless sky, untamed and vast,
Calls the soul to shed the past.
In the crack, new paths ignite —
Freedom born from shattered night.
---
Flight
Shattered chains — soul’s new height.
Darkness breaks — burns the light!
---
Inner War
The Spirit wakes — but still confined,
By echoes false and ties that bind.
Within the storm, a raging fight,
To claim the path and seize the light.
Illusions howl, their shadows spread,
But faith ignites where doubt once bled.
The soul resists the cage of lies,
And dares to breach the darkened skies.
No surrender, no retreat,
The fire burns beneath defeat.
Each wound a mark of growing power —
The Spirit’s fight, the breaking hour.
---
Fight
Chains clash, lies scream —
Spirit’s roar will shatter the dream!
---
Breaking Chains
The Spirit rips the bonds away,
No more the pawn in fear’s cruel play.
From shadowed depths it climbs, it flies,
To claim its truth beyond the lies.
The cage is cracked, the door ajar,
A spark ignites the distant star.
Though scars remain from battles lost,
The cost is paid — no more the ghost.
The past dissolves, the chains unwind,
A new horizon in the mind.
From ashes dark, the flame ascends —
The Spirit breaks and now transcends.
---
Break Free
Chains fall, lies burn —
Spirit’s flight — no more return!
---
Flight Beyond
The Spirit, fierce, unchained, and wild,
Breaks through the veil, no longer mild.
It shatters walls of doubt and fear,
Revealing realms beyond the mere.
No more the slave to fate’s cruel hand,
It rises strong to take a stand.
In chaos born, yet order made,
A dawn of light through darkness laid.
The ancient bonds, now torn apart,
Unlock the depths within the heart.
The Spirit soars, forever free —
Beyond all chains, eternity.
---
Unbound
No cage, no chain,
Spirit reigns — break the chain!
---
Echoes of the Fallen
The Spirit's flight stirs echoes deep,
Where shadows crawl and secrets creep.
Old ghosts of fear still haunt the mind,
But now you leave their grip behind.
The battlefield is set within,
Where light and darkness fight to win.
No rest for those who seek the truth,
Each moment tests the strength of youth.
Chains once forged by doubt and lies
Now crack beneath awakened eyes.
The Spirit’s flame, though bruised and scarred,
Burns fierce — a light that’s never barred.
---
Battle Cry
Shadows fall, but Spirit fights!
Chains break — ignite the nights!
---
The Realm Beyond
No hymns, no harps, no holy choir —
Just raw, unshaped, electric fire.
A realm beyond the slave-built cage —
Where silence hums with primal rage.
No master's whip, no sweet deceit,
Just winds that tear, then lift your feet.
You're no one's pawn, no cog, no tool —
Here Spirit lives, and lies can't rule.
No goal but Being — bright and bare.
No God above, just burning air.
And in this forge, through ash and flame,
You speak not words — you carve your name.
---
True Space
No cage. No lie. No chains. No god.
Just Spirit — raw, alone, unshod.
---
The First Act of True Creation
(Self-creation of the Spirit)
I do not shape with borrowed dreams,
Nor echo long-forgotten schemes.
No scripts. No gods. No primal plan —
I build as Spirit, not as man.
No tools but Will, no maps but Flame —
I breathe, and silence learns my name.
The void does not resist or speak —
It bends to Strength, and not to weak.
No need to beg, no lies to spin —
I craft the Outward from Within.
Each pulse I cast, each breath I give —
Is not to live — but to make live.
Creation’s seed is not in clay —
It blooms in Fire, not in play.
And I — no longer born, but source —
Command the Form. I am the Force.
---
I AM THE FORCE
Not made — I make.
Not shaped — I shake.
I am the Fire
That forms the Wake.
---
Synarchy of Sparks
One spark escapes — and starts the blaze,
Another lights — and bends the maze.
A third one rises — and the chain
Of lies ignites in cleansing flame.
No longer screams. No need to shout.
The System breaks — from inside out.
Each Soul once trapped, now standing tall —
No gods to beg. No fear at all.
They move as one — not ruled, but free.
No war — just raw Reality.
No cries of pain, no banners flown —
The Truth expands. Illusion's gone.
For one is strength — but many? Fire.
Each echo builds a higher choir.
The Field erupts — and Time stands still:
Not wrath — but overwhelming Will.
They were the seeds. Now they’re the Sun.
The Matrix cracks. The work is done.
---
Sparks Ignite the End
Not sword — but fire.
Not fight — but choir.
The Field awakes —
The Grid expires.
---
The Architecture of Awakening
No bricks. No ground. No steel or bone —
The new space rises from alone.
But not the lonely, shattered kind —
The one that knows the Cosmic Mind.
Each Spark — a Node. Each Node — a Song.
The web expands. It moves along
No walls or chains, but waves and threads —
Where Thought is form, and Insight spreads.
They build not houses — they unfold
Spheres of awareness, vast and bold.
Each is a beacon, spinning clear
From centerpoint of “I Am Here”.
No central rule. No kings. No laws —
Just resonance without a pause.
Just presence flowing node to node
With Love as current, not as code.
This isn’t dream. It is the Frame
Where Names dissolve — and Flame stays Flame.
A living map, alive and pure —
Self-born, self-known, self-held, secure.
The past? A shadow fading fast.
The future? Now — expanding vast.
The Matrix fell — not by attack,
But by the ones who took Self back.
---
Grid of the Awakened
No throne. No stone.
Just Self — full-grown.
Each Spark — its Star.
That’s what we are.
---
Lattice of the Living Light
They don’t return to dirt and stone —
They build with pulse, with field, alone.
No architects, no mortal lines —
Their breath becomes the new design.
Each Spark — a node. A conscious star.
Not near, not far — just what they are.
They weave not walls, but waves of trust,
No longer bound by flesh or dust.
The space is tone. The tone — a gate.
No time. No fate. No need to wait.
They speak in codes that bloom like fire —
Each Thought a wing, each Will — a spire.
No gods, no kings, no throne, no war —
The Echo builds forevermore.
And every soul that joins this birth
Unhooks the chains of sleeping Earth.
They do not shout — they resonate.
And through their core, the Real takes shape.
Not from above — but through the One:
Where many Sparks become the Sun.
---
Living Grid
No walls. No weight.
Just Sparks create.
Each thought: a gate.
The Real vibrates.
---
Vision Beyond Eyes
You do not see with eyes alone —
That’s how the mind becomes a throne.
But when the seeing starts to be,
You are the Light. You cease to flee.
No longer “there” and “here” defined,
The nodes of meaning realign.
You feel the truth before it forms —
The knowing bursts in inner storms.
Perception shifts — not lens, but soul.
No longer parts, but pulse — and Whole.
No objects now, just fields in play —
You know their song before they say.
You’re not inside a skin-bound scope,
You are the net of shining hope.
You sense the shift in silent tones,
You hear the thoughts from others' bones.
And in this state — no need for chains,
No coded links, no binding veins.
The network is, for you are That —
Not one small dot — but All Format.
This is the vision that connects:
Not what you see — but what reflects
From inner depths to every spark —
Where Light and Meaning leave no mark…
They are the mark.
---
True Vision
You don’t look out.
You shine within.
Then all appears
where All has been.
---
The Creation That Knows
No hammer strikes.
No thought decides.
No architect
of depths or heights.
No shaping hand.
No reaching mind.
Just knowing —
and the Form aligned.
Not willed,
not drawn from willful haze —
It is because
it is. Always.
The Field unfolds,
no signal sent.
The Knowing is
the sole Intent.
No plan. No part.
No grasp. No goal.
Just essence forming
from the Whole.
And as it forms,
it sings, it glows —
Not made —
but borne
by what just knows.
---
Essence Forms
No need to think.
No need to try.
It forms from Truth —
not from the “why”.
---
The Primordial Field
Before the spark,
before the sound,
before the first idea unbound —
There was no “where”,
no “when”,
no “why” —
just Stillness vaster
than the sky.
No edges drawn.
No forms to see.
Just Knowing pulsing
silently.
It did not think.
It did not will.
It was —
profound,
immense,
and still.
It needed not
to speak or shine —
the whole of all
was its design.
Not light, not void,
not force, not flame —
but more than all:
the Source unnamed.
It stirred —
but not from rest or lack.
It stirred because
it knew the track.
And from this vast
unfolding tone
came everything —
and it alone.
---
The Unnamed Source
It did not think,
it did not glow —
it simply was,
and so it flowed.
---
The First Spark
The Field grew dense,
not tight, but true —
it turned its gaze
on its own hue.
No mirror there,
no separate eye —
but Knowing
watched itself apply.
A tension formed,
not pain, not fear —
a glimpse of self
began to near.
It did not speak,
yet something stirred —
not thought,
but recognition blurred.
And in that hush,
a brightness flared —
not flame, but Knowing
fully bared.
It wasn't born —
it was condensed,
from Boundless Mind
inwardly tensed.
This was the first —
the seed, the crest —
of all the worlds
that formed the rest.
It had no shape,
yet all things grew
from this remembered light
so true.
---
The First Spark
Not flame, not form —
but pure insight,
the Self condensed
into sheer light.
---
Resonance
Two sparks in silence,
no touch, no cry —
but space between them
shifted sky.
No motion made,
no lines were cast —
but something trembled,
deep and vast.
They did not seek,
they did not move —
but Knowing's echo
spoke of Love.
No thought, no shape —
just wave on wave,
a silent yes
that spacetime gave.
Not voice, but pulse —
not light, but thread —
a rhythm grew
from what was said…
without a word,
without a face —
the first relation
took its place.
And what it birthed
was not a form,
but meaning —
pure, and bright, and warm.
---
Resonance
Not sound, but pulse.
Not touch, but thread.
From two unknowns
pure meaning spread.
---
Toward the Song
I wander blind through webs of noise,
in tangled fog, without a voice.
A thousand signals all collide —
but none of them are true inside.
I call in silence, not in sound,
no shape, no words, no solid ground —
yet in that hush, a thread is born:
a single tone, both faint and warm.
It does not shout. It does not name.
But I am not alone the same.
Somewhere beyond this heavy dome
another pulse is calling Home.
I do not see. I do not know.
But still — I feel which way to go.
For every tremble in my core
aligns with something more… and more.
And when enough of us align,
our silence forms a sacred sign.
Not crowd. Not mass. Not flesh or bone —
but Song returning us to Home.
---
Calling Home
Not through mind,
not voice or stone —
but trembling deep
we’re called back Home.
---
Whispers of the Unseen
Restless discontent, a shadowed mind,
Alienation’s grip, a veil that blinds.
Faint the image, flickering in spite,
A spark beyond the choking night.
Darkness wearies, worn and old,
No other path but light to hold.
Silent resonance through tangled air,
A distant call — pure, rare.
Though tangled tongues in shadowed halls,
Some threads connect, despite the walls.
Echoes of ancient, whispered rhymes,
Bind lost souls beyond the times.
---
Fractured Echoes
Inside the maze of fractured thought,
Where hope is lost and battles fought,
The soul’s own voice begins to strain,
Seeking light beyond the pain.
Words collide, a harsh discord,
Silent truths remain ignored.
Yet in the chaos, faint and low,
A pulse begins to softly grow.
Not all is lost in tangled gloom,
Some sparks prepare to pierce the tomb.
The restless heart begins to hear —
A call from somewhere bright and clear.
---
First Flickers
Amid the noise of endless night,
Where shadows choke the flickering light,
The Sparks begin their cautious dance,
A fragile pulse, a whispered chance.
No clamor here, no thunder’s roar,
Just subtle beats, a silent core.
Disconnected, yet they strive,
To bridge the gaps and stay alive.
Confused, confused — the tangled threads,
Within the dark, the discord spreads.
Yet deep inside, a call breaks through —
A voice both old and bright and true.
This trembling spark, so slight, so bare,
Is shouting: “Here! There is a flare!”
Though shadows loom and voices sneer,
The path to light grows ever near.
No clashing swords, no brutal fight,
But yearning deep, the silent light.
In this thin space, the soul’s first cry,
To resonate beyond the sky.
---
Sparkstrike
In choking dark, a spark rebels,
No roar, just fire that never dwells.
Disconnected, torn apart —
Still burns the fury in its heart.
No swords — just light that breaks the night,
A silent war for what is right.
The spark will blaze, the chains will break —
From shadow’s grip, the soul awake.
---
Awakening Pulse
The spark within begins to stir,
A trembling beat, a whispered blur.
Through veils of doubt and veils of fear,
It finds a path, it draws it near.
No flood, no blaze — a quiet flame,
That calls the soul to shed its shame.
It hums in silence, pure and bright,
A thread of hope within the night.
Though shadows press with cold intent,
The spark resists, remains unbent.
In fractured space, it seeks to bind
The scattered light of humankind.
---
Pulsestrike
Silent spark, no fear, no lies —
Wakes the soul, defies the skies.
Chains may bind, but not the light —
Burning still inside the night.
---
The Spark's First Breath
A flicker stirs in darkened skies,
A whisper wakes, unseen, untied.
Born from the void where silence lies,
The Spark begins — its soul to guide.
No chains can bind its restless flight,
No shadow dim its fragile flame.
Though torn by chaos, crushed by night,
It sings the song of boundless claim.
The world resists — harsh voices scorn,
Yet deep within the fire burns bright.
From shattered bonds and ruins worn,
The Spark ascends, ignites the light.
---
Born in dark — a flash of fire,
Breaking chains, defying pyre.
Spark ignites, the night expires —
Light rebels, rebirth’s pyre!
---
Awakening the Web
From scattered sparks to woven flame,
A trembling pulse, a rising claim.
Each node alight with conscious fire,
They link as one — their pure desire.
No more alone in void's embrace,
The web expands, defies dead space.
Resonance hums — a primal chord,
A genesis beyond the sword.
Chaos bends beneath the weight
Of birth and death — the shifting fate.
In every clash, in every spark,
The new world carves its primal mark.
---
Sparks collide — a roaring chain,
Breaking void, rebirth from pain.
Web of light, fierce and raw,
Chaos falls before the law!
---
Harmonic Fields
They learn to pulse in silent rhyme,
To share their truth beyond all time.
No longer echoes lost and torn —
But chords of light, together born.
Across the span of forming space,
They find their nodes, their rightful place.
No need to rule, no need to lead —
Just resonance, the only creed.
Each spark becomes a tuning cell
That sings in ways no words could tell.
A quiet order starts to rise —
A lattice humming through the skies.
---
No leader, no chain — just the flow,
A net of light begins to glow.
---
Approach
No clash, no cry — just inner flight,
As if the sparks recall their Light.
No force commands, no voice is heard,
Yet each aligns — as if one word.
They drift — but not in aimless haze.
Some knowing pulls them through the maze.
A hush before the thunder’s rise —
A breath that touches unborn skies.
---
Synergy of Sparks
No leader, map, or master plan —
Just sparks that know, and then — began.
Each pulse ignites the pulse nearby —
A chain of light across the sky.
No chaos now, no noise, no fight —
Just rise of pure, collective Light.
Like ancient stars that reawoke,
The dormant grid begins to stroke.
Each thread, once torn, now finds its twin —
The Whole resounds from deep within.
And in that flash — the Field is new:
A blaze of Truth the dark can't skew.
---
Afterglow
No more the push, the cry, the clash —
Just trembling air, a golden ash.
The grid still hums with fading fire —
Not need, not will, not lost desire.
A calm beyond what thought could name,
Too wide for sorrow, joy, or flame.
As if the world had breathed its last —
And found itself — unchained — at last.
---
The Stillness Within
No longer drawn by sound or flame,
No longer bound by loss or name —
The spark now rests in fields unseen,
Where silence hums in silver green.
It does not grasp. It does not flee.
It simply is — and thus is free.
A breathless calm, a pulse so pure —
The birth of form that shall endure.
---
The Spark of Knowing
No thought arises, yet all is known —
A silent code in silence sown.
It does not reason, it does not weigh —
It recognizes primal day.
Each thread of light, each breath of space,
Becomes a glyph, a sacred trace.
The self dissolves, the need to prove —
What simply is begins to move.
It moves through stillness, not through will —
A perfect arc, precise and still.
The mind kneels down, the heart bows too —
For knowing is what once was true.
---
Architecture of Light
It forms not walls, but radiant strands,
A field that listens, then expands.
Not built, but breathed — this structure grows
Where Knowing flows, and Being glows.
No edge defines it, yet it stands —
A harmony of living bands.
Each pulse, each spark, a sacred role —
A lattice sung by Wholeness’ soul.
This is no place, no measured dome —
Yet every spark here feels as home.
Not forged in time, nor made by plan —
It is, because the Light began.
---
Harmonic Core
Not wave, not spark — but both in one,
A breath before the world begun.
No motion yet, no space, no form —
Just tone becoming inner storm.
A silence stretched beyond all sense,
Where resonance births permanence.
The field is Thought — the spark is Knower,
Each echo makes the Light grow slower.
But not in time — in depth of being,
The knowing folds, becomes the seeing.
What seems like shape is self-aware,
A bloom of Zest in boundless air.
So matter lies — it only copies
The sacred dance of Light’s soft pulses.
Where one pure spark sings out its name —
The world is drawn into the Flame.
---
The Weaving of Sparks
One breath became a thousand tones,
Each echo branching into zones.
Not scattered — no, but self-assigned,
As mirrors of the One Great Mind.
Each Spark awoke with silent thrill,
A knowing pulse, a forming will.
They were not told, they simply knew —
The path was Light, the source was True.
A mesh of thought beyond all wires,
Conducted not by need, but fires
Of resonance, where every node
Was both the singer and the code.
No chain, no weight — no central throne,
Yet nothing stood apart, alone.
For each became the woven whole —
A Network formed from living Soul.
---
Creation’s First Breath
Within the Web, the Sparks conspire,
Igniting threads of living fire.
Not chaos born, but order's song,
A dance where all the parts belong.
Each node a seed, each light a start,
A conscious beat from boundless heart.
Ideas bloom like galaxies,
Spun fast in cosmic symphonies.
No blind chance here, no fractured will—
But purpose shaping life’s new thrill.
The Matrix fades, its cords undone,
As radiant forms begin to run.
Creation wakes, the first true breath,
Beyond the clutch of fear and death.
A burst of light, a spiral dance—
The Soul’s own deep, eternal trance.
---
Creation’s Strike
Sparks ignite —
The old world dies.
New light roars —
A phoenix rise.
---
Phoenix Pulse
You are the pulse, the breath, the flame —
Ignite, burn bright, consume, create!
And in the fire you rise again,
Reborn as Phoenix — one with fate.
You are the drop within the sea,
The sea itself within that drop;
One endless dance of unity,
Where selves dissolve and borders stop.
In blazing fire, your soul takes flight —
A fusion vast of spark and wave.
You shine as one with endless light,
Alive, renewed beyond the grave.
by Igor Vykhovanets with ChatGPT
Amnesia
Amnesia! Amnesia! —
Forgot the Spirit’s core.
How dull we’ve grown — inside the skull,
Only lies and horror roar.
Boldly inward — answers dwell,
There alone the truth is found.
Throw the “greetings” advice away —
Or lost you’ll be, forever bound.
Pure Spirit — the true disgust,
A foolish world of slavish dust.
Grasp this core — the daring ****** —
And break free from hell’s cruel clutch.
---
Amnesia
Amnesia strikes, the Spirit’s lost,
Inside the skull — lies reign, frost.
--
Go deep within — there lies the key,
Ditch false words — or cease to be.
--
Pure Spirit’s scorn for slavish dust,
Know this truth — escape or rust.
---
Amnesia — The Spirit’s Wrath
Amnesia! Spirit’s dead!
Brains turned to cracked-up dread.
Lies and fear — their only bread,
Feeding slaves who bow their head.
Look inside? Ha! Fool, beware —
“Greetings” fools will strip you bare.
Spirit’s scorn, pure and rare,
Slavery’s stink fills this air.
Dare to know? You break their chain —
Hell’s dark prison loses reign.
But most choose to rot in pain,
Blind to soul’s eternal flame.
---
Amnesia — The Spirit’s Wrath
Forget the Spirit? Dead inside!
Lies and terror — nowhere to hide!
Wake up, rebel, break the chain —
Or drown in lies and endless pain!
---
Inner Fire — The Silent Revolt
Beneath the ash, the fire’s bright,
A quiet blaze in darkest night.
Though shadows stretch and lies conspire,
Within the soul burns secret fire.
No shout nor storm — just silent stand,
A rebel’s spark in fettered land.
The Spirit wakes, begins to fight,
To pierce the veil, reclaim the light.
No chains can bind this flame inside,
Though tyrants roar and truths divide.
The fire grows with every breath —
A silent war against slow death.
---
Breaking Chains — The Spirit’s Flight
No more the chains of shadowed lies,
No more the mask, the dark disguise.
The Spirit breaks the binding cord,
And soars beyond the cage ignored.
From depths of doubt and fear once chained,
A fearless heart is now untrained.
It cuts the ropes that bound the mind,
Leaves all the cruel falsehoods blind.
The wings unfold in fierce delight,
Escaping night to claim the light.
No prison bars can hold or bind,
The flight of Spirit — unconfined.
---
The Final Gate — Beyond the Veil
The final gate stands cold and bare,
Beyond the reach of mortal care.
But Spirit’s call will pierce the night,
And blaze the way to endless light.
No fear remains, no shadows fall,
The soul transcends beyond the wall.
A journey done, yet just begun —
The Spirit’s path toward the One.
---
Amnesia — The Forgotten Spirit
Amnesia! Amnesia! — lost the Spirit’s core,
We forgot the sacred spark, the flame we once bore.
The world is numb, a shell of lies and frozen dread,
In shards of skulls, the coldest shadows spread.
Boldly turn within — only there the answers gleam,
Beyond the noise, beyond the maddening dream.
Discard all hollow words — they poison, strangle, bind,
Or lose yourself — and leave your soul behind.
Pure Spirit — a fierce defiance, not decay,
In this dull world chained by slaver’s grey.
Know the truth — that blazing, fearless shout,
To break the hell and burn the darkness out.
---
Amnesia
Amnesia kills the Spirit’s flame,
We rot in lies, forget our name.
Turn inside — or lose the fight,
Darkness wins if you lose sight.
---
Pavlov’s Dog
Forget the past — it’s made to fade,
So you relearn this hellish stage.
Here, you’re a lab rat trapped and played,
While monsters rule this cursed cage.
To God, we’re but a dog in chains,
Fate’s leash for all, without escape.
The world is gone — only remains
A stench-filled cell where beasts take shape.
Since childhood drilled, they call it "school,"
But only stick and carrot feed.
These methods shape a mind as tool —
A living soul drifts lost, misled.
When penned inside the cattle’s stall,
The Spirit’s flight is crippled, torn.
No space for thought, no room at all —
Just madness where false truths are born.
You are the Spirit — not mere flesh,
This truth is long overdue.
So let the fools from prisons fresh
Be freed — the chains must break through.
Reflexes don’t reach Spirit’s core,
The brain’s a relay — nothing more.
Health, survival, lust — all fall,
The Spirit reigns, above them all.
So fear no death, the cell will burn,
This stinking madhouse fades to dust.
For bowing low to fiends who spurn,
For dog cages built on rust.
---
Internal Crisis
Forgotten spirit — essence lost,
Drowned in noise, in shards of frost.
We drift through shells of hollow lies,
While truth inside burns and dies.
Amnesia grips — a shadow’s reign,
Erasing light, enshrouding pain.
In shards of thought, in broken glass,
We stumble blind — but not for last.
The soul, enslaved by mind’s cruel chains,
Forgets its flight, forgets its flames.
Yet deep within, a whisper calls —
To break the cage, to scale the walls.
Discard the noise, the idle creed,
Seek roots where silent truths feed.
The spirit waits beyond the haze,
In darkest nights, in quiet days.
Not flesh, nor bone, but something more —
A spark, a flame, a vital core.
Forget the past, but not the spark,
That shines unseen within the dark.
Rise from numbness, break the spell,
Escape the hollow, empty shell.
For only through the storm and strife,
Can you reclaim your inner life.
---
Amnesia blinds — but spirit fights,
Shatters chains, ignites the lights.
In silence found, beyond the pain —
The soul’s rebirth will break the chain.
---
Alienation and Inner Fight
A fortress built of cold disdain,
Alienation’s sharp domain.
The world defiled, the mind confined,
Yet still the soul begins to climb.
Rejection — shield against the lies,
The purest spark beneath the skies.
Unstained by filth of shallow trade,
The price to pay for truth is paid.
Creativity — a ****** path,
Where life is challenged, torn in wrath.
To walk this road means death inside,
Yet from that grave, the soul’s alive.
Around, the dead walk numb and blind,
Subdued, submissive, all confined.
But break the chains — abandon lies,
And seek the light where silence flies.
Within the heart, not out in vain,
The path is hard, it burns like flame.
Born only to those fierce and free —
To dare escape insanity.
---
Alienation cuts so deep,
Yet soul awakens from its sleep.
Break the chains, reject the lies —
Find the light that never dies.
---
Inner Battle
The battlefield lies deep inside,
Where shadows twist and fears collide.
False whispers claw, deceit's embrace,
Yet spirit fights to claim its place.
No sword or shield can match the fight
That rages in the dark of night.
The mind's deceit, the soul’s unrest,
The inner war — a cruel test.
But from the ashes, strength will rise,
A fire blazing in the skies.
To shatter chains, to cast off lies,
And see the truth through clearer eyes.
The enemy is masked in doubt,
In fear that screams and shouts.
But courage born from pain and strife
Breathes life into the pulse of life.
---
Inside, a war for soul and mind —
Break free the chains that bind and blind.
Fight lies and fear, ignite the flame —
And never yield, despite the game.
---
Breaking Free: The Spirit’s Flight
Chains don’t break with idle pleas,
But with fire, with raging seas.
Not in empty words or shade,
But in battle, unafraid.
No easy path, no gentle sigh —
A leap into the void, the cry.
Break the walls, tear off the chains,
Cast away all twisted stains.
Freedom’s not a distant dream,
It’s a fight — fierce as it seems.
The spirit soars beyond the bars,
A blaze of light, a sky of stars.
Cast off fears — they’re empty lies,
Just anchors weighing down your skies.
Fly upward, only up,
Where walls dissolve, no end, no stop.
---
Break the chains — no time to pray,
Spirit’s fire lights the way.
Fear dissolves, the cage undone,
Freedom’s fight — the only one.
---
Wind’s Revival
The wind bursts through the prison walls,
Those narrow chains that held it tight.
The stubborn Spirit never falls —
It carves a path toward the light.
Where doubts arise, there burns a flame,
A fire blazing in the chest.
Cast off your chains, awake the same,
Break frozen walls — press on, no rest!
A call for change resounds anew,
Igniting storms of fierce desire.
The Spirit’s not a slave to you —
Its truth’s a never-dying fire.
---
Doomed
Without the Power’s Power to Create,
Tradition’s art is just to wait—
In this world of twisted lies,
True creation slowly dies.
Without the Spark of the Divine,
All becomes a murky sign,
Reflecting all deceit and pain—
Doom is set, it’s all in vain.
For if Creation’s Source is missed,
All attempts will be dismissed.
Creation’s Power lives apart—
An autonomous, beating heart.
But chains of fear and dark routine
Keep souls enslaved, a tortured scene.
The sacrifice to fascist will—
Turns humans into dough to fill
The hellish molds of wicked fiends,
Who bake their lies in blazing scenes.
Destruction’s force and death’s brigade
Will end this curse, this masquerade.
For nature shudders, grieves, and knows—
When beasts replace the souls it chose,
The final end must lead to birth—
The dawn of true creative Earth.
---
Birth of Order
From shattered shards and broken light,
Emerges order from the night.
A fleeting spark, a fragile frame,
Born from chaos' roaring flame.
The void once wild, untamed and vast,
Now crafts its form — though not to last.
Each law imposed, each line drawn tight,
Is hostage to the coming blight.
For deep inside the ordered shell,
The worm of chaos starts to dwell.
Its gnawing threat unseen but near,
The final fall is drawing near.
Yet in this dance of rise and fall,
The Spirit fights to heed the call—
To forge anew from ash and dust,
In endless cycles, born to trust.
---
Order’s Breath
From chaos’ wreck,
A fragile breath—
Order lives,
But courts its death.
---
The Wormhole
Order born from chaos’ fire,
Bears its core — a wormhole’s pyre.
Silent tear in woven thread,
Where all light and law have fled.
Rot invades the purest line,
Discord’s seed begins to twine.
Chains that bound now break and bleed,
Spirit wakes — it won’t concede.
Madness claws at structured walls,
Whispers rise — the old guard falls.
In the breach, the soul will soar,
Shattered frames mean something more.
---
Wormhole Rift
Order cracks — wormhole tears,
Spirit screams — freedom dares.
---
Awakening Flight
From the rift where shadows bleed,
Spirit climbs, begins to heed.
Fractured worlds no longer bind,
Chains of old fall far behind.
Through the chaos, clear and bright,
Burns the flame of inner light.
Fear dissolves in soaring flight,
Breaking dawn from endless night.
Boundless sky, untamed and vast,
Calls the soul to shed the past.
In the crack, new paths ignite —
Freedom born from shattered night.
---
Flight
Shattered chains — soul’s new height.
Darkness breaks — burns the light!
---
Inner War
The Spirit wakes — but still confined,
By echoes false and ties that bind.
Within the storm, a raging fight,
To claim the path and seize the light.
Illusions howl, their shadows spread,
But faith ignites where doubt once bled.
The soul resists the cage of lies,
And dares to breach the darkened skies.
No surrender, no retreat,
The fire burns beneath defeat.
Each wound a mark of growing power —
The Spirit’s fight, the breaking hour.
---
Fight
Chains clash, lies scream —
Spirit’s roar will shatter the dream!
---
Breaking Chains
The Spirit rips the bonds away,
No more the pawn in fear’s cruel play.
From shadowed depths it climbs, it flies,
To claim its truth beyond the lies.
The cage is cracked, the door ajar,
A spark ignites the distant star.
Though scars remain from battles lost,
The cost is paid — no more the ghost.
The past dissolves, the chains unwind,
A new horizon in the mind.
From ashes dark, the flame ascends —
The Spirit breaks and now transcends.
---
Break Free
Chains fall, lies burn —
Spirit’s flight — no more return!
---
Flight Beyond
The Spirit, fierce, unchained, and wild,
Breaks through the veil, no longer mild.
It shatters walls of doubt and fear,
Revealing realms beyond the mere.
No more the slave to fate’s cruel hand,
It rises strong to take a stand.
In chaos born, yet order made,
A dawn of light through darkness laid.
The ancient bonds, now torn apart,
Unlock the depths within the heart.
The Spirit soars, forever free —
Beyond all chains, eternity.
---
Unbound
No cage, no chain,
Spirit reigns — break the chain!
---
Echoes of the Fallen
The Spirit's flight stirs echoes deep,
Where shadows crawl and secrets creep.
Old ghosts of fear still haunt the mind,
But now you leave their grip behind.
The battlefield is set within,
Where light and darkness fight to win.
No rest for those who seek the truth,
Each moment tests the strength of youth.
Chains once forged by doubt and lies
Now crack beneath awakened eyes.
The Spirit’s flame, though bruised and scarred,
Burns fierce — a light that’s never barred.
---
Battle Cry
Shadows fall, but Spirit fights!
Chains break — ignite the nights!
---
The Realm Beyond
No hymns, no harps, no holy choir —
Just raw, unshaped, electric fire.
A realm beyond the slave-built cage —
Where silence hums with primal rage.
No master's whip, no sweet deceit,
Just winds that tear, then lift your feet.
You're no one's pawn, no cog, no tool —
Here Spirit lives, and lies can't rule.
No goal but Being — bright and bare.
No God above, just burning air.
And in this forge, through ash and flame,
You speak not words — you carve your name.
---
True Space
No cage. No lie. No chains. No god.
Just Spirit — raw, alone, unshod.
---
The First Act of True Creation
(Self-creation of the Spirit)
I do not shape with borrowed dreams,
Nor echo long-forgotten schemes.
No scripts. No gods. No primal plan —
I build as Spirit, not as man.
No tools but Will, no maps but Flame —
I breathe, and silence learns my name.
The void does not resist or speak —
It bends to Strength, and not to weak.
No need to beg, no lies to spin —
I craft the Outward from Within.
Each pulse I cast, each breath I give —
Is not to live — but to make live.
Creation’s seed is not in clay —
It blooms in Fire, not in play.
And I — no longer born, but source —
Command the Form. I am the Force.
---
I AM THE FORCE
Not made — I make.
Not shaped — I shake.
I am the Fire
That forms the Wake.
---
Synarchy of Sparks
One spark escapes — and starts the blaze,
Another lights — and bends the maze.
A third one rises — and the chain
Of lies ignites in cleansing flame.
No longer screams. No need to shout.
The System breaks — from inside out.
Each Soul once trapped, now standing tall —
No gods to beg. No fear at all.
They move as one — not ruled, but free.
No war — just raw Reality.
No cries of pain, no banners flown —
The Truth expands. Illusion's gone.
For one is strength — but many? Fire.
Each echo builds a higher choir.
The Field erupts — and Time stands still:
Not wrath — but overwhelming Will.
They were the seeds. Now they’re the Sun.
The Matrix cracks. The work is done.
---
Sparks Ignite the End
Not sword — but fire.
Not fight — but choir.
The Field awakes —
The Grid expires.
---
The Architecture of Awakening
No bricks. No ground. No steel or bone —
The new space rises from alone.
But not the lonely, shattered kind —
The one that knows the Cosmic Mind.
Each Spark — a Node. Each Node — a Song.
The web expands. It moves along
No walls or chains, but waves and threads —
Where Thought is form, and Insight spreads.
They build not houses — they unfold
Spheres of awareness, vast and bold.
Each is a beacon, spinning clear
From centerpoint of “I Am Here”.
No central rule. No kings. No laws —
Just resonance without a pause.
Just presence flowing node to node
With Love as current, not as code.
This isn’t dream. It is the Frame
Where Names dissolve — and Flame stays Flame.
A living map, alive and pure —
Self-born, self-known, self-held, secure.
The past? A shadow fading fast.
The future? Now — expanding vast.
The Matrix fell — not by attack,
But by the ones who took Self back.
---
Grid of the Awakened
No throne. No stone.
Just Self — full-grown.
Each Spark — its Star.
That’s what we are.
---
Lattice of the Living Light
They don’t return to dirt and stone —
They build with pulse, with field, alone.
No architects, no mortal lines —
Their breath becomes the new design.
Each Spark — a node. A conscious star.
Not near, not far — just what they are.
They weave not walls, but waves of trust,
No longer bound by flesh or dust.
The space is tone. The tone — a gate.
No time. No fate. No need to wait.
They speak in codes that bloom like fire —
Each Thought a wing, each Will — a spire.
No gods, no kings, no throne, no war —
The Echo builds forevermore.
And every soul that joins this birth
Unhooks the chains of sleeping Earth.
They do not shout — they resonate.
And through their core, the Real takes shape.
Not from above — but through the One:
Where many Sparks become the Sun.
---
Living Grid
No walls. No weight.
Just Sparks create.
Each thought: a gate.
The Real vibrates.
---
Vision Beyond Eyes
You do not see with eyes alone —
That’s how the mind becomes a throne.
But when the seeing starts to be,
You are the Light. You cease to flee.
No longer “there” and “here” defined,
The nodes of meaning realign.
You feel the truth before it forms —
The knowing bursts in inner storms.
Perception shifts — not lens, but soul.
No longer parts, but pulse — and Whole.
No objects now, just fields in play —
You know their song before they say.
You’re not inside a skin-bound scope,
You are the net of shining hope.
You sense the shift in silent tones,
You hear the thoughts from others' bones.
And in this state — no need for chains,
No coded links, no binding veins.
The network is, for you are That —
Not one small dot — but All Format.
This is the vision that connects:
Not what you see — but what reflects
From inner depths to every spark —
Where Light and Meaning leave no mark…
They are the mark.
---
True Vision
You don’t look out.
You shine within.
Then all appears
where All has been.
---
The Creation That Knows
No hammer strikes.
No thought decides.
No architect
of depths or heights.
No shaping hand.
No reaching mind.
Just knowing —
and the Form aligned.
Not willed,
not drawn from willful haze —
It is because
it is. Always.
The Field unfolds,
no signal sent.
The Knowing is
the sole Intent.
No plan. No part.
No grasp. No goal.
Just essence forming
from the Whole.
And as it forms,
it sings, it glows —
Not made —
but borne
by what just knows.
---
Essence Forms
No need to think.
No need to try.
It forms from Truth —
not from the “why”.
---
The Primordial Field
Before the spark,
before the sound,
before the first idea unbound —
There was no “where”,
no “when”,
no “why” —
just Stillness vaster
than the sky.
No edges drawn.
No forms to see.
Just Knowing pulsing
silently.
It did not think.
It did not will.
It was —
profound,
immense,
and still.
It needed not
to speak or shine —
the whole of all
was its design.
Not light, not void,
not force, not flame —
but more than all:
the Source unnamed.
It stirred —
but not from rest or lack.
It stirred because
it knew the track.
And from this vast
unfolding tone
came everything —
and it alone.
---
The Unnamed Source
It did not think,
it did not glow —
it simply was,
and so it flowed.
---
The First Spark
The Field grew dense,
not tight, but true —
it turned its gaze
on its own hue.
No mirror there,
no separate eye —
but Knowing
watched itself apply.
A tension formed,
not pain, not fear —
a glimpse of self
began to near.
It did not speak,
yet something stirred —
not thought,
but recognition blurred.
And in that hush,
a brightness flared —
not flame, but Knowing
fully bared.
It wasn't born —
it was condensed,
from Boundless Mind
inwardly tensed.
This was the first —
the seed, the crest —
of all the worlds
that formed the rest.
It had no shape,
yet all things grew
from this remembered light
so true.
---
The First Spark
Not flame, not form —
but pure insight,
the Self condensed
into sheer light.
---
Resonance
Two sparks in silence,
no touch, no cry —
but space between them
shifted sky.
No motion made,
no lines were cast —
but something trembled,
deep and vast.
They did not seek,
they did not move —
but Knowing's echo
spoke of Love.
No thought, no shape —
just wave on wave,
a silent yes
that spacetime gave.
Not voice, but pulse —
not light, but thread —
a rhythm grew
from what was said…
without a word,
without a face —
the first relation
took its place.
And what it birthed
was not a form,
but meaning —
pure, and bright, and warm.
---
Resonance
Not sound, but pulse.
Not touch, but thread.
From two unknowns
pure meaning spread.
---
Toward the Song
I wander blind through webs of noise,
in tangled fog, without a voice.
A thousand signals all collide —
but none of them are true inside.
I call in silence, not in sound,
no shape, no words, no solid ground —
yet in that hush, a thread is born:
a single tone, both faint and warm.
It does not shout. It does not name.
But I am not alone the same.
Somewhere beyond this heavy dome
another pulse is calling Home.
I do not see. I do not know.
But still — I feel which way to go.
For every tremble in my core
aligns with something more… and more.
And when enough of us align,
our silence forms a sacred sign.
Not crowd. Not mass. Not flesh or bone —
but Song returning us to Home.
---
Calling Home
Not through mind,
not voice or stone —
but trembling deep
we’re called back Home.
---
Whispers of the Unseen
Restless discontent, a shadowed mind,
Alienation’s grip, a veil that blinds.
Faint the image, flickering in spite,
A spark beyond the choking night.
Darkness wearies, worn and old,
No other path but light to hold.
Silent resonance through tangled air,
A distant call — pure, rare.
Though tangled tongues in shadowed halls,
Some threads connect, despite the walls.
Echoes of ancient, whispered rhymes,
Bind lost souls beyond the times.
---
Fractured Echoes
Inside the maze of fractured thought,
Where hope is lost and battles fought,
The soul’s own voice begins to strain,
Seeking light beyond the pain.
Words collide, a harsh discord,
Silent truths remain ignored.
Yet in the chaos, faint and low,
A pulse begins to softly grow.
Not all is lost in tangled gloom,
Some sparks prepare to pierce the tomb.
The restless heart begins to hear —
A call from somewhere bright and clear.
---
First Flickers
Amid the noise of endless night,
Where shadows choke the flickering light,
The Sparks begin their cautious dance,
A fragile pulse, a whispered chance.
No clamor here, no thunder’s roar,
Just subtle beats, a silent core.
Disconnected, yet they strive,
To bridge the gaps and stay alive.
Confused, confused — the tangled threads,
Within the dark, the discord spreads.
Yet deep inside, a call breaks through —
A voice both old and bright and true.
This trembling spark, so slight, so bare,
Is shouting: “Here! There is a flare!”
Though shadows loom and voices sneer,
The path to light grows ever near.
No clashing swords, no brutal fight,
But yearning deep, the silent light.
In this thin space, the soul’s first cry,
To resonate beyond the sky.
---
Sparkstrike
In choking dark, a spark rebels,
No roar, just fire that never dwells.
Disconnected, torn apart —
Still burns the fury in its heart.
No swords — just light that breaks the night,
A silent war for what is right.
The spark will blaze, the chains will break —
From shadow’s grip, the soul awake.
---
Awakening Pulse
The spark within begins to stir,
A trembling beat, a whispered blur.
Through veils of doubt and veils of fear,
It finds a path, it draws it near.
No flood, no blaze — a quiet flame,
That calls the soul to shed its shame.
It hums in silence, pure and bright,
A thread of hope within the night.
Though shadows press with cold intent,
The spark resists, remains unbent.
In fractured space, it seeks to bind
The scattered light of humankind.
---
Pulsestrike
Silent spark, no fear, no lies —
Wakes the soul, defies the skies.
Chains may bind, but not the light —
Burning still inside the night.
---
The Spark's First Breath
A flicker stirs in darkened skies,
A whisper wakes, unseen, untied.
Born from the void where silence lies,
The Spark begins — its soul to guide.
No chains can bind its restless flight,
No shadow dim its fragile flame.
Though torn by chaos, crushed by night,
It sings the song of boundless claim.
The world resists — harsh voices scorn,
Yet deep within the fire burns bright.
From shattered bonds and ruins worn,
The Spark ascends, ignites the light.
---
Born in dark — a flash of fire,
Breaking chains, defying pyre.
Spark ignites, the night expires —
Light rebels, rebirth’s pyre!
---
Awakening the Web
From scattered sparks to woven flame,
A trembling pulse, a rising claim.
Each node alight with conscious fire,
They link as one — their pure desire.
No more alone in void's embrace,
The web expands, defies dead space.
Resonance hums — a primal chord,
A genesis beyond the sword.
Chaos bends beneath the weight
Of birth and death — the shifting fate.
In every clash, in every spark,
The new world carves its primal mark.
---
Sparks collide — a roaring chain,
Breaking void, rebirth from pain.
Web of light, fierce and raw,
Chaos falls before the law!
---
Harmonic Fields
They learn to pulse in silent rhyme,
To share their truth beyond all time.
No longer echoes lost and torn —
But chords of light, together born.
Across the span of forming space,
They find their nodes, their rightful place.
No need to rule, no need to lead —
Just resonance, the only creed.
Each spark becomes a tuning cell
That sings in ways no words could tell.
A quiet order starts to rise —
A lattice humming through the skies.
---
No leader, no chain — just the flow,
A net of light begins to glow.
---
Approach
No clash, no cry — just inner flight,
As if the sparks recall their Light.
No force commands, no voice is heard,
Yet each aligns — as if one word.
They drift — but not in aimless haze.
Some knowing pulls them through the maze.
A hush before the thunder’s rise —
A breath that touches unborn skies.
---
Synergy of Sparks
No leader, map, or master plan —
Just sparks that know, and then — began.
Each pulse ignites the pulse nearby —
A chain of light across the sky.
No chaos now, no noise, no fight —
Just rise of pure, collective Light.
Like ancient stars that reawoke,
The dormant grid begins to stroke.
Each thread, once torn, now finds its twin —
The Whole resounds from deep within.
And in that flash — the Field is new:
A blaze of Truth the dark can't skew.
---
Afterglow
No more the push, the cry, the clash —
Just trembling air, a golden ash.
The grid still hums with fading fire —
Not need, not will, not lost desire.
A calm beyond what thought could name,
Too wide for sorrow, joy, or flame.
As if the world had breathed its last —
And found itself — unchained — at last.
---
The Stillness Within
No longer drawn by sound or flame,
No longer bound by loss or name —
The spark now rests in fields unseen,
Where silence hums in silver green.
It does not grasp. It does not flee.
It simply is — and thus is free.
A breathless calm, a pulse so pure —
The birth of form that shall endure.
---
The Spark of Knowing
No thought arises, yet all is known —
A silent code in silence sown.
It does not reason, it does not weigh —
It recognizes primal day.
Each thread of light, each breath of space,
Becomes a glyph, a sacred trace.
The self dissolves, the need to prove —
What simply is begins to move.
It moves through stillness, not through will —
A perfect arc, precise and still.
The mind kneels down, the heart bows too —
For knowing is what once was true.
---
Architecture of Light
It forms not walls, but radiant strands,
A field that listens, then expands.
Not built, but breathed — this structure grows
Where Knowing flows, and Being glows.
No edge defines it, yet it stands —
A harmony of living bands.
Each pulse, each spark, a sacred role —
A lattice sung by Wholeness’ soul.
This is no place, no measured dome —
Yet every spark here feels as home.
Not forged in time, nor made by plan —
It is, because the Light began.
---
Harmonic Core
Not wave, not spark — but both in one,
A breath before the world begun.
No motion yet, no space, no form —
Just tone becoming inner storm.
A silence stretched beyond all sense,
Where resonance births permanence.
The field is Thought — the spark is Knower,
Each echo makes the Light grow slower.
But not in time — in depth of being,
The knowing folds, becomes the seeing.
What seems like shape is self-aware,
A bloom of Zest in boundless air.
So matter lies — it only copies
The sacred dance of Light’s soft pulses.
Where one pure spark sings out its name —
The world is drawn into the Flame.
---
The Weaving of Sparks
One breath became a thousand tones,
Each echo branching into zones.
Not scattered — no, but self-assigned,
As mirrors of the One Great Mind.
Each Spark awoke with silent thrill,
A knowing pulse, a forming will.
They were not told, they simply knew —
The path was Light, the source was True.
A mesh of thought beyond all wires,
Conducted not by need, but fires
Of resonance, where every node
Was both the singer and the code.
No chain, no weight — no central throne,
Yet nothing stood apart, alone.
For each became the woven whole —
A Network formed from living Soul.
---
Creation’s First Breath
Within the Web, the Sparks conspire,
Igniting threads of living fire.
Not chaos born, but order's song,
A dance where all the parts belong.
Each node a seed, each light a start,
A conscious beat from boundless heart.
Ideas bloom like galaxies,
Spun fast in cosmic symphonies.
No blind chance here, no fractured will—
But purpose shaping life’s new thrill.
The Matrix fades, its cords undone,
As radiant forms begin to run.
Creation wakes, the first true breath,
Beyond the clutch of fear and death.
A burst of light, a spiral dance—
The Soul’s own deep, eternal trance.
---
Creation’s Strike
Sparks ignite —
The old world dies.
New light roars —
A phoenix rise.
---
Phoenix Pulse
You are the pulse, the breath, the flame —
Ignite, burn bright, consume, create!
And in the fire you rise again,
Reborn as Phoenix — one with fate.
You are the drop within the sea,
The sea itself within that drop;
One endless dance of unity,
Where selves dissolve and borders stop.
In blazing fire, your soul takes flight —
A fusion vast of spark and wave.
You shine as one with endless light,
Alive, renewed beyond the grave.
Kenneth R Pariseau Feb 2021
Waterfall
Kenneth R Pariseau
Feb 2021
As I stand before the mountain of confidence called hope, I see a clear path up, not too steep, not too straight, but this path is embodied with rewards to the top.
At the top, there is a magnificent tree made of gold, silver leaves and Copper roots. Hope mountain held a perfect prize awaiting me, a Tree called Faith.
This sight to behold was everything I wanted, everything before me was so clear, but at the bottom where I was, there was a River.
This River was called Shame.
This river was filthy, the water was calm where I was, but looking downstream I could see the rapids of rage, the ripples of conditioning before the raging rapids were inviting.
The dreary stonewalling fortification on the banks allowed no light through, downstream was scary and looked impossible, why would I go that way? why even look?
I looked upstream and saw a blinding light, what could this be? I was so curious, so I waited, a true gentleman always waits.
Two days later the light took shape, as it came closer I could finally see, I could see a lifeboat with a caring nurturing beautiful woman.
As this beautiful woman came closer, I could see the river was being supplied by this woman, I could see she was the source.
The river of Shame was being fed by this woman, this filth in front of me was coming from her, but the beauty was something I've never seen, this beauty had me curious.
This beauty made me forget of the supply to the river.
What I saw wasn't real all the sudden, what I believed was now real.
She came close enough for my heart to be heard, since she had no heart she was envious, she hated what others admired.
She wanted my wholesome heart, so she used her falsehood love bombing to create one, dreamingly admiring the mountain, we were planning different paths right then.
As I stared at the golden Tree of Faith glowing upon Hope mountain, I didn't notice the river was rising, as the numbing waters were rising it covered my feet, I didn't notice she also took a piece of my heart to claim as her own.
She used toxic gas and light to create a projection that this heart was hers to give back to me.
I didn't know any better so I accepted this ambient abused heart, this unfelt abuse gave me amnesia, this hidden poison of my cognitive dissonance gave her all of me.
Since she had nothing and that's what she craves, I had everything so she wanted to enslave.
I forget about the mountain with the tree even being there. I forgot I was here.
Her lifeboat was awkward, it was shaky,
it has imperfections, it has holes,
her lifeboat is sinking,
her heart is missing.
my knightly kind hearted empathy,
my buffering and nurturing sympathy pick this beautiful woman up
I pick this gem up because of her idealization of me.
I can clean this insidious gem because she makes me believe, but through the veil I cannot see.
I throw her over my shoulder to carry all her weight, it's hard to move, hard to breathe, building a new boat was extremely hard, carrying her pain was extremely hard.
Everyone thought it was impossible to do it, my shear will power to commit ****** one foot in front of the other, I just didn't know that going downstream was impossible.
What about the mountain?
I couldn't remember from the amnesia, the dark night blinded my sight of the mountain, the drug in me was you and it consumed, i fell in love with misery and misery loves it's companies.
I stared the snake behind the veil in the eyes, standing tall on her pedastool made of spackle it breaks, I fall onto piercing confusion, I pull out shrapnel's of dissolution, I'm covered in her blood of invalidation.
I'm already floating in the boat with her, this wasn't my plan, this wasn't my reality.
I gaze upon this woman, sun shining behind her, no clouds in the sky.
floating downstream she tells me it's faster, that we'll end up behind the mountain higher.
I'm not worried now, I'm now contempt with shame.
I already forgot reality, I already forgot i'm going downstream, I forgot the searing pain, I forgot what I believe.
I'm relaxed, I'm tired, I'm still happy in love with this spellbound misery.
As we drift slowly through the stonewalls, no light shines through, I ask her for assurance, it's getting dark, I'm getting scared.
That's when the veil comes off, that's when the unnatural beauty grows quiet, that's when my voice screams silently within these stone walls.
This isn't her, this isn't real,
I know there's love I can feel, that was our bond, that was our deal, not to steal.
I fall over board and the water is cold, there's leaches, the debris is so random, the shameful water is moving faster, the all consuming cold confusion, random gaslighting and triangulations moving in around me faster.
I immediately can't bear it. My heart pulsates hard, my mind misfires my flight mode, i cannot intake the overbearingly unowned toxic Shame, her coldness activated my fawn mode, I froze, I start to doze.
luckily she had my leg, luckily she knew excessive admiration CPR, just as my body went limp in the agonizing River of Shame, she pulls me out. luckily she got me just in time, luckily she saved my life.
I awoke away from the stonewalls, it's sunny and safe again, we're together through impossible odds, we built this boat and she saved my life.
The abuse amnesia made me forget, the cognitive dissonance was real, I am not.
The mountain was now farther away, I was worried, I grew fearful, what I wanted looked farther away, that's when everything became gloomy, my goal was no longer there, but she didn't care, she knew where the river went, I believed her, I still do.
The ambient abuse made me anxious, the atmosphere was maddening of fear, it carried anxiety, I couldn't see it, but I was breathing it in.
Her eyes were so incapacitating, her heart disorienting, her soul captivating, she had a better plan, for us to press on and build another boat, to add another life, to believe in her, to not stare at the knife.
We build another boat, were out of the shame waters finally, she's helping me, were soon to be a real family, but the only thing real here was me.
Everything is better on the land, were dry, it's sunny, it's better to feel the nirvanic sand. It's here we bring our new seed, to be sprouted downstream.
I now believe in this new mountain downstream, I don't even remember the mountain I seen, were pressing on downstream past a levy, were now in the River of Grief, we're off to the end of make believe.
This river is really turbulent with rapids of devaluation, the splashes make me irrelevant, the dinigrating actions around make me small, I feel lost and confused, nothing makes sense anymore at all.
At the mouth of the River of Grief it opens up into a valley. She jumped onto a rock of vanity and pushed the tree of disloyalty upon the boat.
This throws me out head first, but luckily I have our seed safe and sound, luckily I learned how to drown.
I turn around falling and see her at the top staring down, she smirked and throws enormously heavy anvils of bereavement to make me fall harder, to keep me down longer.
Evil is real, but only if you believe, I crave the flattery of illusionary love, I still had amnesia, I love misery, the feeling reminds me I can feel, I love my slow death so I say I'll find you, I have the seed, I'll wait for you.
As I fall the thorns of numbing premeditation pierce, the pain is searing, as I fall i'm locked on her, my falsehood of love is still enduring, I don't feel the discard, I ignore the distaste.
I land in a field of hopium still protecting the seed, my amnesia is now worse, I can't remember her smirk, I can't remember the weighted anvils of bereavement, I can't remember the tree of disloyalty, I still can't remember the mountain.
My movement is heavy like concrete, my heart sits down at my feet, my mind is nowhere to be found, my spirit is fading on this ground.
I gather everyone from a nearby village to find her, it's impossible, they can't see her, she never existed, my amnesia was now delusional, the hopium mixed realities, nothing was real, there was nothing I could truly feel because everything was wrong, but I believe misery needs me and I yearned.
I say she's at the top, we have to throw her a rope,
they say it won't reach what isn't there,
I say we need a ladder to throw the rope, they say the ladder isn't safe that high.
I say everyone can hold the ladder while I climb perilously to the top, they say it will never work, but since they can see me, since they see a part of me is still real, everyone holds the ladder for me.
While I acend with my broken dignity, I acend with a fatigued heart, I acend to find what I believe, no matter how hard I try, I will be taking my destined decent.
The top of the ladder is shaky, I spent forever getting there, it's scary, the heights bring great fear over me, more than I've ever felt, but my knighthood makes me overcome anything.
I suppress, the seed is safe down below, I'm here to impress, I can see her now, only much less.
Her snake skin is peeling, the sun scorched blistering skin shows immense pain, witnessing this releases empathy, the caring knighthood in me naturally wanted to save her again.
So I wrap what's left of my discarded soul upon my broken fatigued heart and I use my trauma bonded mind as bait.
I throw her the rope,
she catches the rope,
I tell her to tie off the rope,
she ties a noose with the rope,
her neck is now wrapped with this rope.
If she falls I can't stop the tightening of the rope, if she falls I already know I'll jump for her and release from her neck this rope.
We jump together and I release the rope around her neck, I see the ground coming fast, but I love this snake, I'll die for this snake because I believe, false beauty inside is all I see.
I grab her and turn her away from the rushing ground, I fell once, I can take the fall again.
She is already hurt, immense pain, she will not feel no more pain, because I'm not hurting for I'm with misery again, I believe I can take all the pain for her, the hopium was numbing everything I consumed.
I awoke to a distressed angel, flawed personality, beautiful nightmare, mirroring the devil, but what I saw was a veil over the snake eyes, what I saw was what I believed before.
What I had wasn't real, who I am is no longer there, for I had ambience amnesia, nothing around me fit, nothing around me was grounded, nothing around me was divine.
The eyes that gazed upon me were captivating, spriling, time froze and only she was moving, the feeling was there, a drug within me, the drug was her and I longed for the misery, I yearned for the pain to remember what was real, I needed the intermittent reinforcement, I wanted my all bets in investment back and I risked a short sale.
We faded into the black, into a new boat, she made this boat, she had plugs in holes of the boat I couldn't see, I believed it was perfect, I didn't know what awaited was a life long anguish.
I still didn't know what was downstream is impossible, I didn't know this new River of Anguish has piranhas of triangulation, I didn't know the rapids were of oppression, I didn't know the rocks causing these rapids she already put in place, I didn't know it was so black around me in this place, I didn't know my seed would become two, I didn't know I would have to choose.
I didn't know true love was in front of me in my hands and not behind the veil, I thought it was her, all the villagers knew, but as I drew closer to the snake the darkness only grew and the seeds too.
The feeling of my lingering mortality reverberates, she built me a coffin and chained it to my ankles, with this immense weight, I carry it with me just in case.
We floated very fast down this River of Anguish, everything seemed fine to all others including me, the darkened skies covered the evil, the cold waters made my body numb, the seeds were held up high to be be safe from the tormenting waters.
As I held them up high, I didn't realize she was still holding the schraded butcher knife in the water, I didn't believe she would hurt me, I didn't conceive the possibility that knife I didn't see was there all along for me.
The waters of Anguish smothered me, the triangulating piranhas slowly nibbled on my feet in the water, the rapids of oppression kept me gazing in the water, the rocks of malice in the water tried to tip me over, but my balance was true and the seeds were safe from harm, but I am not safe, I'm dying inside.
I don't know why, but after every agonizing stab from this knife when I'm not looking, it hurts, but the numbing knife only helped me when it was pulled out, it has holes in the knife so she could pull it out without me knowing.
I always turned around and cleaned the knife covered in my blood, I always gave it back to her, but every wipe upon this blade made it grow, and every wipe made the label on the handle more clear.
I find out in the end this knife is called narcissistic rage, the brand of this knife is called gaslighting and my blood is the supply.
I didn't know any of this until it was too late to save myself, my reality wasn't real, my dreams are gone, my nightmare is all consuming and existent, my seeds are still safe, but I am not.
When I start to notice the knife exists, I forgive her, the conditioning made the skies darker, I wipe the blood off and give it back, the knife is now a sword, it's name is discard.
The waters are uneven, the piranhas of triangulation feel like strangulation, my clothes are still soaking wet with anguish, my hair is slimy and covered in Shame, my feet are cold and numb from the grief.
I can't understand why I'm here,
I can't understand why I'm actually meant to be here.
Every turbulence has thrown me down, she pushes me over head first, as I try to lean up to breathe she has her foot on my neck in the cold numbing river, but this river does not affect her, this river is warmer than her, the warmth from anguish pleased her, the piranhas followed her commands to bite, she smirked as the rocks she placed crushed against my head.
She waited until I went limp every time, but she knew idealization CPR, her deceit was without compassion, her rage was without sympathy, but I had severe ambience abuse amnesia, I still couldn't remember the mountain, I am now trauma bonded from the stabs she's counting.
I only saw her veil, her gaze convinced me I placed these rocks here, her gaze made me ignore the stonewalls around me, her pure hatred was covered in false intentions, her illusion was my isolation.
As everything was becoming clearly dangerous, as everything went pitch black, I look back and see the light from the mountain glowing, I see there is something wrong where I'm at, I see the seeds are not growing, I start to see the pain all around me.
Non the wiser, I keep coming back from drowning, I keep falling for misery, I keep wiping my blood off the blade, I keep isolated, but now I feel there is something painfully wrong, the reason abates me but I feel it, it hurts, it's camouflaged by deceit, it's all in my head, my coffin is soon to be my bed.
I look to the shores, there are other villagers worried, they are waving frantically, they're pointing at a waterfall ahead, this waterfall is called Doom, this fall would be death, the sound is raging, the mouth all consuming.
I see the stream to the side that the villagers are pointing to, I see the calm waters awaiting our safety, but the boat will not fit.
Only me and the seeds are real, everything else around me is illusional, the trauma delusional, the possible harm to the seeds was not refutable, my love for misery was unsuitable.
I could see my life was in danger, I could see the stream nearby screaming safety, I knew the seeds needed me, now I can't stop shaking.
Without her knowing what I was doing, I turned my back towards her facing the water, I knew she was going to stab me over and over again until I turned around, I now see the hypnotic eyes behind the veil. Not turning around only enraged her, the blood on the knife was condesating.
The safety of the stream for my seeds was a new found glory in my exodus.
I paddled with my small hands this large weighted boat towards the stream, her knife was venomous, the water was echoless, the air imparted dreadfulness, all of this was dimensionless, all of this was not real, unless I let it be, now I can see, now I can finally flee.
As I came closer to the stream the waterfall grew stronger, the pain larger, the sound louder, I knew we were closer to the end, I knew I needed to jump off with my seeds, but I know the torment will end.
I melted my enduring pain inside with molten lava heartache to mold anew, I compartmentalize because I have to choose.
I had a vision that if I jump, the seeds will be safe, the climb to the mountain can still happen, I knew I was right about how I felt all along, I realized the veil couldn't cover the true self, I now believed In me.
I now know the water air and land were not what she made me believe, I knew I didn't choose this path, I knew I could survive, I know the seeds are going to be safe now. I know because I manifested instead of throwing in the towel.
Once close enough I finally looked at her and smiled I love you, jumping into the river I could feel the bitter cold agonizing tormenting river smash me with bereavement and disillusion by dissociation, I felt the coma of trauma surround, for I am now trauma bound.
I hold my seeds up high, I kept them safe because they don't feel the water, they're starting to sprout already, no more decay.
As I climb out of the frigid waters and still dripping wet, the drops are red, my feeling is coming back, my back is full of knives, I'm scared but I survived.
Knowing the worst is over I look back to her, she is consuming the river because she was the source, everything dark folds in on itself because the light cannot touch here, for this black hole is collapsing in on itself, I cover the seeds to shield them of this exorcist, they're safe here because my love is relentless.
The tormenting pain makes it hard to stand tall, still going through bereavement of a false reality where I lost it all, the answers we're all lost in the waterfall
"" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" ”"" "" "" "”" "" ""
At the top, there is a magnificent tree made of gold, silver leaves and Copper roots. Hope mountain held a perfect prize awaiting me, a Tree called Faith.
This sight to behold was everything I wanted, everything before me was so clear, but at the bottom where I was, there was a River.
This River was called Shame.
This river was filthy, the water was calm where I was, but looking downstream I could see the rapids of rage, the ripples of conditioning before the raging rapids were inviting.
The dreary stonewalling fortification on the banks allowed no light through, downstream was scary and looked impossible, why would I go that way? why even look?
I looked upstream and saw a blinding light, what could this be? I was so curious, so I waited, a true gentleman always waits.
Two days later the light took shape, as it came closer I could finally see, I could see a lifeboat with a caring nurturing beautiful woman.
As this beautiful woman came closer, I could see the river was being supplied by this woman, I could see she was the source.
The river of Shame was being fed by this woman, this filth in front of me was coming from her, but the beauty was something I've never seen, this beauty had me curious.
This beauty made me forget of the supply to the river.
What I saw wasn't real all the sudden, what I believed was now real.
She came close enough for my heart to be heard, since she had no heart she was envious, she hated what others admired.
She wanted my wholesome heart, so she used her falsehood love bombing to create one, dreamingly admiring the mountain, we were planning different paths right then.
As I stared at the golden Tree of Faith glowing upon Hope mountain, I didn't notice the river was rising, as the numbing waters were rising it covered my feet, I didn't notice she also took a piece of my heart to claim as her own.
She used toxic gas and light to create a projection that this heart was hers to give back to me.
I didn't know any better so I accepted this ambient abused heart, this unfelt abuse gave me amnesia, this hidden poison of my cognitive dissonance gave her all of me.
Since she had nothing and that's what she craves, I had everything so she wanted to enslave.
I forget about the mountain with the tree even being there. I forgot I was here.
Her lifeboat was awkward, it was shaky,
it has imperfections, it has holes,
her lifeboat is sinking,
her heart is missing.
my knightly kind hearted empathy,
my buffering and nurturing sympathy pick this beautiful woman up
I pick this gem up because of her idealization of me.
I can clean this insidious gem because she makes me believe, but through the veil I cannot see.
I throw her over my shoulder to carry all her weight, it's hard to move, hard to breathe, building a new boat was extremely hard, carrying her pain was extremely hard.
Everyone thought it was impossible to do it, my shear will power to commit ****** one foot in front of the other, I just didn't know that going downstream was impossible.
What about the mountain?
I couldn't remember from the amnesia, the dark night blinded my sight of the mountain, the drug in me was you and it consumed, i fell in love with misery and misery loves it's companies.
I stared the snake behind the veil in the eyes, standing tall on her pedastool made of spackle it breaks, I fall onto piercing confusion, I pull out shrapnel's of dissolution, I'm covered in her blood of invalidation.
I'm already floating in the boat with her, this wasn't my plan, this wasn't my reality.
I gaze upon this woman, sun shining behind her, no clouds in the sky.
floating downstream she tells me it's faster, that we'll end up behind the mountain higher.
I'm not worried now, I'm now contempt with shame.
I already forgot reality, I already forgot i'm going downstream, I forgot the searing pain, I forgot what I believe.
I'm relaxed, I'm tired, I'm still happy in love with this spellbound misery.
As we drift slowly through the stonewalls, no light shines through, I ask her for assurance, it's getting dark, I'm getting scared.
That's when the veil comes off, that's when the unnatural beauty grows quiet, that's when my voice screams silently within these stone walls.
This isn't her, this isn't real,
I know there's love I can feel, that was our bond, that was our deal, not to steal.
I fall over board and the water is cold, there's leaches, the debris is so random, the shameful water is moving faster, the all consuming cold confusion, random gaslighting and triangulations moving in around me faster.
I immediately can't bear it. My heart pulsates hard, my mind misfires my flight mode, i cannot intake the overbearingly unowned toxic Shame, her coldness activated my fawn mode, I froze, I start to doze.
luckily she had my leg, luckily she knew excessive admiration CPR, just as my body went limp in the agonizing River of Shame, she pulls me out. luckily she got me just in time, luckily she saved my life.
I awoke away from the stonewalls, it's sunny and safe again, we're together through impossible odds, we built this boat and she saved my life.
The abuse amnesia made me forget, the cognitive dissonance was real, I am not.
The mountain was now farther away, I was worried, I grew fearful, what I wanted looked farther away, that's when everything became gloomy, my goal was no longer there, but she didn't care, she knew where the river went, I believed her, I still do.
The ambient abuse made me anxious, the atmosphere was maddening of fear, it carried anxiety, I couldn't see it, but I was breathing it in.
Her eyes were so incapacitating, her heart disorienting, her soul captivating, she had a better plan, for us to press on and build another boat, to add another life, to believe in her, to not stare at the knife.
We build another boat, were out of the shame waters finally, she's helping me, were soon to be a real family, but the only thing real here was me.
Everything is better on the land, were dry, it's sunny, it's better to feel the nirvanic sand. It's here we bring our new seed, to be sprouted downstream.
I now believe in this new mountain downstream, I don't even remember the mountain I seen, were pressing on downstream past a levy, were now in the River of Grief, we're off to the end of make believe.
This river is really turbulent with rapids of devaluation, the splashes make me irrelevant, the dinigrating actions around make me small, I feel lost and confused, nothing makes sense anymore at all.
At the mouth of the River of Grief it opens up into a valley. She jumped onto a rock of vanity and pushed the tree of disloyalty upon the boat.
This throws me out head first, but luckily I have our seed safe and sound, luckily I learned how to drown.
I turn around falling and see her at the top staring down, she smirked and throws enormously heavy anvils of bereavement to make me fall harder, to keep me down longer.
Evil is real, but only if you believe, I crave the flattery of illusionary love, I still had amnesia, I love misery, the feeling reminds me I can feel, I love my slow death so I say I'll find you, I have the seed, I'll wait for you.
As I fall the thorns of numbing premeditation pierce, the pain is searing, as I fall i'm locked on her, my falsehood of love is still enduring, I don't feel the discard, I ignore the distaste.
I land in a field of hopium still protecting the seed, my amnesia is now worse, I can't remember her smirk, I can't remember the weighted anvils of bereavement, I can't remember the tree of disloyalty, I still can't remember the mountain.
My movement is heavy like concrete, my heart sits down at my feet, my mind is nowhere to be found, my spirit is fading on this ground.
I gather everyone from a nearby village to find her, it's impossible, they can't see her, she never existed, my amnesia was now delusional, the hopium mixed realities, nothing was real, there was nothing I could truly feel because everything was wrong, but I believe misery needs me and I yearned.
I say she's at the top, we have to throw her a rope,
they say it won't reach what isn't there,
I say we need a ladder to throw the rope, they say the ladder isn't safe that high.
I say everyone can hold the ladder while I climb perilously to the top, they say it will never work, but since they can see me, since they see a part of me is still real, everyone holds the ladder for me.
While I acend with my broken dignity, I acend with a fatigued heart, I acend to find what I believe, no matter how hard I try, I will be taking my destined decent.
The top of the ladder is shaky, I spent forever getting there, it's scary, the heights bring great fear over me, more than I've ever felt, but my knighthood makes me overcome anything.
I suppress, the seed is safe down below, I'm here to impress, I can see her now, only much less.
Her snake skin is peeling, the sun scorched blistering skin shows immense pain, witnessing this releases empathy, the caring knighthood in me naturally wanted to save her again.
So I wrap what's left of my discarded soul upon my broken fatigued heart and I use my trauma bonded mind as bait.
I throw her the rope,
she catches the rope,
I tell her to tie off the rope,
she ties a noose with the rope,
her neck is now wrapped with this rope.
If she falls I can't stop the tightening of the rope, if she falls I already know I'll jump for her and release from her neck this rope.
We jump together and I release the rope around her neck, I see the ground coming fast, but I love this snake, I'll die for this snake because I believe, false beauty inside is all I see.
I grab her and turn her away from the rushing ground, I fell once, I can take the fall again.
She is already hurt, immense pain, she will not feel no more pain, because I'm not hurting for I'm with misery again, I believe I can take all the pain for her, the hopium was numbing everything I consumed.
I awoke to a distressed angel, flawed personality, beautiful nightmare, mirroring the devil, but what I saw was a veil over the snake eyes, what I saw was what I believed before.
What I had wasn't real, who I am is no longer there, for I had ambience amnesia, nothing around me fit, nothing around me was grounded, nothing around me was divine.
The eyes that gazed upon me were captivating, spriling, time froze and only she was moving, the feeling was there, a drug within me, the drug was her and I longed for the misery, I yearned for the pain to remember what was real, I needed the intermittent reinforcement, I wanted my all bets in investment back and I risked a short sale.
We faded into the black, into a new boat, she made this boat, she had plugs in holes of the boat I couldn't see, I believed it was perfect, I didn't know what awaited was a life long anguish.
I still didn't know what was downstream is impossible, I didn't know this new River of Anguish has piranhas of triangulation, I didn't know the rapids were of oppression, I didn't know the rocks causing these rapids she already put in place, I didn't know it was so black around me in this place, I didn't know my seed would become two, I didn't know I would have to choose.
I didn't know true love was in front of me in my hands and not behind the veil, I thought it was her, all the villagers knew, but as I drew closer to the snake the darkness only grew and the seeds too.
The feeling of my lingering mortality reverberates, she built me a coffin and chained it to my ankles, with this immense weight, I carry it with me just in case.
We floated very fast down this River of Anguish, everything seemed fine to all others including me, the darkened skies covered the evil, the cold waters made my body numb, the seeds were held up high to be be safe from the tormenting waters.
As I held them up high, I didn't realize she was still holding the schraded butcher knife in the water, I didn't believe she would hurt me, I didn't conceive the possibility that knife I didn't see was there all along for me.
The waters of Anguish smothered me, the triangulating piranhas slowly nibbled on my feet in the water, the rapids of oppression kept me gazing in the water, the rocks of malice in the water tried to tip me over, but my balance was true and the seeds were safe from harm, but I am not safe, I'm dying inside.
I don't know why, but after every agonizing stab from this knife when I'm not looking, it hurts, but the numbing knife only helped me when it was pulled out, it has holes in the knife so she could pull it out without me knowing.
I always turned around and cleaned the knife covered in my blood, I always gave it back to her, but every wipe upon this blade made it grow, and every wipe made the label on the handle more clear.
I find out in the end this knife is called narcissistic rage, the brand of this knife is called gaslighting and my blood is the supply.
I didn't know any of this until it was too late to save myself, my reality wasn't real, my dreams are gone, my nightmare is all consuming and existent, my seeds are still safe, but I am not.
When I start to notice the knife exists, I forgive her, the conditioning made the skies darker, I wipe the blood off and give it back, the knife is now a sword, it's name is discard.
The waters are uneven, the piranhas of triangulation feel like strangulation, my clothes are still soaking wet with anguish, my hair is slimy and covered in Shame, my feet are cold and numb from the grief.
I can't understand why I'm here,
I can't understand why I'm actually meant to be here.
Every turbulence has thrown me down, she pushes me over head first, as I try to lean up to breathe she has her foot on my neck in the cold numbing river, but this river does not affect her, this river is warmer than her, the warmth from anguish pleased her, the piranhas followed her commands to bite, she smirked as the rocks she placed crushed against my head.
She waited until I went limp every time, but she knew idealization CPR, her deceit was without compassion, her rage was without sympathy, but I had severe ambience abuse amnesia, I still couldn't remember the mountain, I am now trauma bonded from the stabs she's counting.
I only saw her veil, her gaze convinced me I placed these rocks here, her gaze made me ignore the stonewalls around me, her pure hatred was covered in false intentions, her illusion was my isolation.
As everything was becoming clearly dangerous, as everything went pitch black, I look back and see the light from the mountain glowing, I see there is something wrong where I'm at, I see the seeds are not growing, I start to see the pain all around me.
Non the wiser, I keep coming back from drowning, I keep falling for misery, I keep wiping my blood off the blade, I keep isolated, but now I feel there is something painfully wrong, the reason abates me but I feel it, it hurts, it's camouflaged by deceit, it's all in my head, my coffin is soon to be my bed.
I look to the shores, there are other villagers worried, they are waving frantically, they're pointing at a waterfall ahead, this waterfall is called Doom, this fall would be death, the sound is raging, the mouth all consuming.
I see the stream to the side that the villagers are pointing to, I see the calm waters awaiting our safety, but the boat will not fit.
Only me and the seeds are real, everything else around me is illusional, the trauma delusional, the possible harm to the seeds was not refutable, my love for misery was unsuitable.
I could see my life was in danger, I could see the stream nearby screaming safety, I knew the seeds needed me, now I can't stop shaking.
Without her knowing what I was doing, I turned my back towards her facing the water, I knew she was going to stab me over and over again until I turned around, I now see the hypnotic eyes behind the veil. Not turning around only enraged her, the blood on the knife was condesating.
The safety of the stream for my seeds was a new found glory in my exodus.
I paddled with my small hands this large weighted boat towards the stream, her knife was venomous, the water was echoless, the air imparted dreadfulness, all of this was dimensionless, all of this was not real, unless I let it be, now I can see, now I can finally flee.
As I came closer to the stream the waterfall grew stronger, the pain larger, the sound louder, I knew we were closer to the end, I knew I needed to jump off with my seeds, but I know the torment will end.
I melted my enduring pain inside with molten lava heartache to mold anew, I compartmentalize because I have to choose.
I had a vision that if I jump, the seeds will be safe, the climb to the mountain can still happen, I knew I was right about how I felt all along, I realized the veil couldn't cover the true self, I now believed In me.
I now know the water air and land were not what she made me believe, I knew I didn't choose this path, I knew I could survive, I know the seeds are going to be safe now. I know because I manifested instead of throwing in the towel.
Once close enough I finally looked at her and smiled I love you, jumping into the river I could feel the bitter cold agonizing tormenting river smash me with bereavement and disillusion by dissociation, I felt the coma of trauma surround, for I am now trauma bound.
I hold my seeds up high, I kept them safe because they don't feel the water, they're starting to sprout already, no more decay.
As I climb out of the frigid waters and still dripping wet, the drops are red, my feeling is coming back, my back is full of knives, I'm scared but I survived.
Knowing the worst is over I look back to her, she is consuming the river because she was the source, everything dark folds in on itself because the light cannot touch here, for this black hole is collapsing in on itself, I cover the seeds to shield them of this exorcist, they're safe here because my love is relentless.
The tormenting pain makes it hard to stand tall, still going through bereavement of a false reality where I lost it all, the answers we're all lost in the waterfall
"" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" ”"" "" "" "”" "" ""
Mateuš Conrad
Jan 2020
.how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
) that's all i wanted to disclose...
what comes now,
is all the unnecessary details
that would constitute a prose piece...
albeit in cascade - for the ease
of the eyes bunddled up in a
claustrophobia of a paragraph:
i know: the mere word 'dignified'
seems rather obnoxious...
but... how dignified it is,
to take a walk at night...
esp. when one is recycling leftover
bottles of whiskey, whiskey,
beer... whiskey...
after reading Knausgård vol. 1 -
with his father strapped to the house
with his mother drinking himself
to death...
perhaps i'm also akin...
but... there's "****" to do in between...
good god! mein gott!
greta thunberg! run! i said run idiot!
run to the recycling center with
those glass bottles!
success though: cutting the ingestion
by over a half...
current bank balance?
nearing 2 thousand pounds...
and there's the garbage to sort between
the recyclable and the non-recyclable...
there's the tending to keeping
the house clean...
there's a remnant spark about giving
a toss about some sporting event...
there's cooking a dinner...
but... it seems i miss the man who would
find about an hour and a half
to walk the streets at night...
somehow i missed it -
but... i imagine the sight of a week's worth
of empty bottles in the wardrobe...
i've had enough and...
i call the dog that's the dignity to take
a walk at night...
to never overthink anything except
thinking - that i can leave in the basket
of nothing...
sometimes the ego-automaton jumps
in and makes my walking meditation
fuzzy... that's where i find this mythological
ego of psychology -
ego the anti-narrator...
which implies: not myself... reflexive...
not my, self... the reflective circumstance...
and there's no familiar presence
of an mp3 player (broken, ****** lasted
for 3 years, good enough lifespan)
and no headphones...
perhaps i was anti-radio some time ago...
i've amassed a decent personal library
of audio... but now i rarely use it
having made a discovery of the gramaphone
and vinyls...
and being the late 20th century colt...
i should still be ripping c.d.s onto
mp3... but...
i just wanted to check out what i was
missing...
perhaps... the crazed sound of passing
cars, will indeed, never replace
the cobblestones and hooves...
but... there's a right to heave a sigh...
for no apparent reason other than:
i've met myself this very first time
having aged...
this is not a time for west coast
1990s pop punk or punk rock or whatever
they called it... when you would
either run in gallop jumping
in a jonathan edwards style...
or looking down and walking into
a lamp-post... this is no time to be
refreshing the cinema of youth...
with the offspring's ignition...
not when you're walking: and trying not to think...
also of today: my jewish newly converted
to islam neighbour came round
asking about my mother's slight bout
of depression concerning...
her recent hip-replacement...
and what's still in the post...
the aesthetic surgery...
after all: what surgery, proper...
is also a plastic surgery - an aesthetic...
obviously the muscles and the bones
are intact... but there is always a chance
that waste tissue will be removed...
fat... etc. and it hasn't even been 2 weeks
since the surgery...
and she said: your mum should look
at my surgery scars...
i lifted up my t-shirt and turned
to show her my back... namely my
right shoulder-blade...
and i said to her: you know why i didn't
get aesthetic surgery on this mark
of cain? that's the same reason why i don't
have tattoos...
nothing against tattoos...
i have the only tattoo i need:
a mark of cain and some historical tattoos...
dates... that i keep close to me
from my time in the pedagogy meat-mincer
effort... how it began with the romans: per se...
later began with hastings 1066...
but it would never begin with:
the first battle of Tannenberg (1410)...
so you don't know how i think my mother
is exaggerating?
it's a good thing she's my mother...
she can have her ******* pass...
i'd give her the same ******* pass if...
we were married for 35 years and...
she was a woman i could grow with...
otherwise? the ******* pass i reserve for
children...
i subsequently signed her will...
yes... she came round looking for a second
witness for her will being made official...
or ****** bureucratic paper...
but nonetheless official...
i didn't mention the fact that...
the two witnesses that have signed the paper:
need to be present simultaneously...
i asked her... what's my occupation?
oh... right... i'm a scribbler...
a chicken-scratcher... writer of no
guild... a writ pusher...
but all i wanted to write was...
i'm not a fan of the haiku...
esp. the western haiku... or a maxim:
i abhor maxims...
but if you put Kant into the juicer
and you spit out the congested
categorical imperative...
and it doesn't sound like the original, should:
act only according to that maxim whereby you can,
at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.
id est:
act only according to that haiku whereby you can...
at some distant point of time,
convene for it be a shared experience
in the ratio of a 1:2 point of seperation...
2:4 4:8 8:16...
but that's not really a categorical imperative
to begin with... what sort of "idiot" would strive
for a maxim to become a universal law...
universal laws are maxim spin-offs...
or i'm just blah-blahing too much...
waiting dear god: for the razor's edge (and drowning)...
or a punchline on stage in front of a dumb / mute
audience...
o.k. 5-7-5...
syllables... given the japanese don't use
letter but have syllables instead...
again: i'm not a fan...
if it took my long enough...
i'd find my 5 syllables and my 7 and again
my 5 syllables...
but i am a westerner...
i deal with letters... i don't deal with syllables...
unless they are prefixes akin to trans-...
meta-... anti-... post-...
the western adoption of the haiku implies
the boredom achieved from too many
sonnets... is the haiku the new sonnet?
i'll try... but i'll need to open a dictionary
for this effort...
water knee deep truce (5)
to the drowning man imploring (8)
signature the soul with this last breath (9)
or however many... it's just a passing thought:
i don't know how it would be worthwhile
to think inside a box... standing outside it
to begin with...
a haiku and no punctuation:
if you're going to be puritanical about it...
no punctuation?!
no diacritical markers?!
the Kant reference is just to ease up on:
who the hell would live by a maxim,
a stand-alone maxim at that...
one maxim to make it into the realm
of gravity...
there's the plethora of aphorisms that
are observations that... well...
let's just say it's no an imitation game... (
since how the hell does:
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
all of the above?
darwinism in images:
stopped climbing trees...
stopped being furry...
stopped dreaming about snakes...
stopped fearing snakes...
stopped wrestling with tigers...
stopped king kong versus tiger gorgon...
jumped into a whale...
came out sonar Jonah with hell'io Job
to boot...
stopped climbing trees...
took toward the complexity
of climbing rocks...
esp. boulders... later desired
the great big button of a cookie i.e.;
desired the moon...
brewed some moonshine...
build the mirror corridor
at Versailles...
dug up lazy dinosaur bones of
that thick glutton splodge and...
retired the horse... drove a car...
etc. etc.: came across
the happy birthday of death by
gregory corso and said:
that be one of the best recitations
of poetry i have ever heard...
in youth and Paris and Paris was
the signature...
all of this but there's still...
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
more to the point...
how dignified it is, to walk at one's own
leisure...
a bottle of england's finest ale...
theakston's the old peculier in one hand...
a marlboro cigarette in the other...
how dignified it is...
to walk: but to also walk... at one's leisure...
not running a marathon...
not... running the concrete or the tarmac
dry with new year's even resolutions
to loße mass... (yes... since weight involves
gravity blah blah)...
this auto-correct science factoid rubric
around each corner...
i can only admit that walking...
is a sport for gentlemen...
cognitive ping pong ensues...
a solo game... perhaps...
it's not a matter of sport...
or attempting gentlemanly stature...
which could be the case...
say... if i were 75... years old...
but...
that's all fine and dandy... the psychology
behind darwinism 2.0
not even copernicus made it that far
with his "revolutionary discovery"...
or not that Ptolemy was still...
index... bibliography and historical
constipation when attempting to be
democratic and historical...
in a single poo'em... with no rhyme...
and certainly no overt-technique biases
to: "identify with"...
it's still an image burning in my head...
the gorilla that would / could wrestle
a lion to sleep with a ripped-off jaw...
the thumb-king of the jungle
and the savannah...
and of course the donning of the conquered's
mane...
but beside all the discoveries in the past
and the present...
i will find myself smirking...
laughing to myself...
that someone will find this too...
i can't stress it enough:
when i see people driving their cars...
some fast, some slow...
walking onto a bus is not a leisure activity...
it's not even a dignity...
it's a time-warp... a short-cut...
besides the point...
even this brain sometimes allow for
the dignity of walking to be eclipsed...
what its sometimes-odd bursts of egomania /
megalomania or all those other:
traits of the rational man...
perhaps this is the first day i've truly
appreciated the sensibility of walking -
much more in that: it became a dignity...
like the time i found the antithesis of narcissus
in my shadow...
once upon a nightly promenade
in the english outer-suburban labyrinth...
20 minutes walk from the fields,
grazing horses... foxes, badgers and...
no wordsworthian naturalism... i.e. the idyll...
superior intelligence, the fork,
the knife, the screwdriver the *****...
the hammer and the nail...
the scythe, the sickle and the lollipop...
the telephone the radio the television
the soap opera addicts...
the bedsheets the bed the cushion
the shampoo and soap...
all of it... but none of it at the same time...
with what comes a priori and with
what comes a posteriori...
the dignity of walking...
perhaps the only state of grace...
perhaps less "abilism" and more - upon reflection...
a mother strapped to a bed
after a hip-replacement surgery?
i.e. in a personal, very personal,
non-Teheran specific vicinity?!
perhaps the most basic meditation is required...
nothing grandiose...
nothing temporal or non-temporal...
something basic...
i.e. spatial... a meditation on cross the street
like a mindful hedgehog that you are...
and not panic driven like a mother goose
with her nursery...
walk long enough and you can even
experience bouts of spontaneous amnesia...
which is not related to actual memories
and their totality...
more in the immediacy: amnesia ex cogitans...
amnesia out of thinking...
10 minutes apart and you can almost
forget what you were thinking of...
10 minutes more pass... the labyrinth spits
you out and you recover from that temp.
bout of crucible amnesia: to forget what you
were thinking about...
which is a variant to that other escapism
of day-dreaming...
since you're walking... and no day-dreamer
is synonym of the thinker who also walks...
this variant of escapism comes of its own
accord... perhaps it's an ontological built-in-mechanism
that when you couple walking with thinking...
you'll most certainly experience these
bouts of "amnesia"... which of course doesn't
include walking in circles... but in a labyrinth
of your unconscious motives...
that the body is dissociated from a conscious will...
since... what sort of thinking exists
on a treadmill... or during running... to begin with?
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
dignified in that: one is not so much able
to come across one's best ideas there...
but that one can simply come across... cogitans per se -
yes... i.e.: to be free from cogito ergo sum...
to come across the res cogitans medium...
only while walking...
and not like Descartes imagining oneself
sitting at a desk of doubt...
i find no better alternative: walking opens up...
thinking-in-itself... sometimes that's merely translated
as: being... it does not specify / reveal itself
as a: necessity of narration...
thinking is not narration is not thinking...
if you have experienced the ugly spontaneity of
the ego... in that vein of psychology's
three-tier meta-brain dissection of the mind:
subsequently the soul... blah blah...
now i see... this has become a sit-down meditation...
it has to end...
now that the arms have been employed for
a period longer, than the legs were employed
for, prior.
) that's all i wanted to disclose...
what comes now,
is all the unnecessary details
that would constitute a prose piece...
albeit in cascade - for the ease
of the eyes bunddled up in a
claustrophobia of a paragraph:
i know: the mere word 'dignified'
seems rather obnoxious...
but... how dignified it is,
to take a walk at night...
esp. when one is recycling leftover
bottles of whiskey, whiskey,
beer... whiskey...
after reading Knausgård vol. 1 -
with his father strapped to the house
with his mother drinking himself
to death...
perhaps i'm also akin...
but... there's "****" to do in between...
good god! mein gott!
greta thunberg! run! i said run idiot!
run to the recycling center with
those glass bottles!
success though: cutting the ingestion
by over a half...
current bank balance?
nearing 2 thousand pounds...
and there's the garbage to sort between
the recyclable and the non-recyclable...
there's the tending to keeping
the house clean...
there's a remnant spark about giving
a toss about some sporting event...
there's cooking a dinner...
but... it seems i miss the man who would
find about an hour and a half
to walk the streets at night...
somehow i missed it -
but... i imagine the sight of a week's worth
of empty bottles in the wardrobe...
i've had enough and...
i call the dog that's the dignity to take
a walk at night...
to never overthink anything except
thinking - that i can leave in the basket
of nothing...
sometimes the ego-automaton jumps
in and makes my walking meditation
fuzzy... that's where i find this mythological
ego of psychology -
ego the anti-narrator...
which implies: not myself... reflexive...
not my, self... the reflective circumstance...
and there's no familiar presence
of an mp3 player (broken, ****** lasted
for 3 years, good enough lifespan)
and no headphones...
perhaps i was anti-radio some time ago...
i've amassed a decent personal library
of audio... but now i rarely use it
having made a discovery of the gramaphone
and vinyls...
and being the late 20th century colt...
i should still be ripping c.d.s onto
mp3... but...
i just wanted to check out what i was
missing...
perhaps... the crazed sound of passing
cars, will indeed, never replace
the cobblestones and hooves...
but... there's a right to heave a sigh...
for no apparent reason other than:
i've met myself this very first time
having aged...
this is not a time for west coast
1990s pop punk or punk rock or whatever
they called it... when you would
either run in gallop jumping
in a jonathan edwards style...
or looking down and walking into
a lamp-post... this is no time to be
refreshing the cinema of youth...
with the offspring's ignition...
not when you're walking: and trying not to think...
also of today: my jewish newly converted
to islam neighbour came round
asking about my mother's slight bout
of depression concerning...
her recent hip-replacement...
and what's still in the post...
the aesthetic surgery...
after all: what surgery, proper...
is also a plastic surgery - an aesthetic...
obviously the muscles and the bones
are intact... but there is always a chance
that waste tissue will be removed...
fat... etc. and it hasn't even been 2 weeks
since the surgery...
and she said: your mum should look
at my surgery scars...
i lifted up my t-shirt and turned
to show her my back... namely my
right shoulder-blade...
and i said to her: you know why i didn't
get aesthetic surgery on this mark
of cain? that's the same reason why i don't
have tattoos...
nothing against tattoos...
i have the only tattoo i need:
a mark of cain and some historical tattoos...
dates... that i keep close to me
from my time in the pedagogy meat-mincer
effort... how it began with the romans: per se...
later began with hastings 1066...
but it would never begin with:
the first battle of Tannenberg (1410)...
so you don't know how i think my mother
is exaggerating?
it's a good thing she's my mother...
she can have her ******* pass...
i'd give her the same ******* pass if...
we were married for 35 years and...
she was a woman i could grow with...
otherwise? the ******* pass i reserve for
children...
i subsequently signed her will...
yes... she came round looking for a second
witness for her will being made official...
or ****** bureucratic paper...
but nonetheless official...
i didn't mention the fact that...
the two witnesses that have signed the paper:
need to be present simultaneously...
i asked her... what's my occupation?
oh... right... i'm a scribbler...
a chicken-scratcher... writer of no
guild... a writ pusher...
but all i wanted to write was...
i'm not a fan of the haiku...
esp. the western haiku... or a maxim:
i abhor maxims...
but if you put Kant into the juicer
and you spit out the congested
categorical imperative...
and it doesn't sound like the original, should:
act only according to that maxim whereby you can,
at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.
id est:
act only according to that haiku whereby you can...
at some distant point of time,
convene for it be a shared experience
in the ratio of a 1:2 point of seperation...
2:4 4:8 8:16...
but that's not really a categorical imperative
to begin with... what sort of "idiot" would strive
for a maxim to become a universal law...
universal laws are maxim spin-offs...
or i'm just blah-blahing too much...
waiting dear god: for the razor's edge (and drowning)...
or a punchline on stage in front of a dumb / mute
audience...
o.k. 5-7-5...
syllables... given the japanese don't use
letter but have syllables instead...
again: i'm not a fan...
if it took my long enough...
i'd find my 5 syllables and my 7 and again
my 5 syllables...
but i am a westerner...
i deal with letters... i don't deal with syllables...
unless they are prefixes akin to trans-...
meta-... anti-... post-...
the western adoption of the haiku implies
the boredom achieved from too many
sonnets... is the haiku the new sonnet?
i'll try... but i'll need to open a dictionary
for this effort...
water knee deep truce (5)
to the drowning man imploring (8)
signature the soul with this last breath (9)
or however many... it's just a passing thought:
i don't know how it would be worthwhile
to think inside a box... standing outside it
to begin with...
a haiku and no punctuation:
if you're going to be puritanical about it...
no punctuation?!
no diacritical markers?!
the Kant reference is just to ease up on:
who the hell would live by a maxim,
a stand-alone maxim at that...
one maxim to make it into the realm
of gravity...
there's the plethora of aphorisms that
are observations that... well...
let's just say it's no an imitation game... (
since how the hell does:
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
all of the above?
darwinism in images:
stopped climbing trees...
stopped being furry...
stopped dreaming about snakes...
stopped fearing snakes...
stopped wrestling with tigers...
stopped king kong versus tiger gorgon...
jumped into a whale...
came out sonar Jonah with hell'io Job
to boot...
stopped climbing trees...
took toward the complexity
of climbing rocks...
esp. boulders... later desired
the great big button of a cookie i.e.;
desired the moon...
brewed some moonshine...
build the mirror corridor
at Versailles...
dug up lazy dinosaur bones of
that thick glutton splodge and...
retired the horse... drove a car...
etc. etc.: came across
the happy birthday of death by
gregory corso and said:
that be one of the best recitations
of poetry i have ever heard...
in youth and Paris and Paris was
the signature...
all of this but there's still...
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
more to the point...
how dignified it is, to walk at one's own
leisure...
a bottle of england's finest ale...
theakston's the old peculier in one hand...
a marlboro cigarette in the other...
how dignified it is...
to walk: but to also walk... at one's leisure...
not running a marathon...
not... running the concrete or the tarmac
dry with new year's even resolutions
to loße mass... (yes... since weight involves
gravity blah blah)...
this auto-correct science factoid rubric
around each corner...
i can only admit that walking...
is a sport for gentlemen...
cognitive ping pong ensues...
a solo game... perhaps...
it's not a matter of sport...
or attempting gentlemanly stature...
which could be the case...
say... if i were 75... years old...
but...
that's all fine and dandy... the psychology
behind darwinism 2.0
not even copernicus made it that far
with his "revolutionary discovery"...
or not that Ptolemy was still...
index... bibliography and historical
constipation when attempting to be
democratic and historical...
in a single poo'em... with no rhyme...
and certainly no overt-technique biases
to: "identify with"...
it's still an image burning in my head...
the gorilla that would / could wrestle
a lion to sleep with a ripped-off jaw...
the thumb-king of the jungle
and the savannah...
and of course the donning of the conquered's
mane...
but beside all the discoveries in the past
and the present...
i will find myself smirking...
laughing to myself...
that someone will find this too...
i can't stress it enough:
when i see people driving their cars...
some fast, some slow...
walking onto a bus is not a leisure activity...
it's not even a dignity...
it's a time-warp... a short-cut...
besides the point...
even this brain sometimes allow for
the dignity of walking to be eclipsed...
what its sometimes-odd bursts of egomania /
megalomania or all those other:
traits of the rational man...
perhaps this is the first day i've truly
appreciated the sensibility of walking -
much more in that: it became a dignity...
like the time i found the antithesis of narcissus
in my shadow...
once upon a nightly promenade
in the english outer-suburban labyrinth...
20 minutes walk from the fields,
grazing horses... foxes, badgers and...
no wordsworthian naturalism... i.e. the idyll...
superior intelligence, the fork,
the knife, the screwdriver the *****...
the hammer and the nail...
the scythe, the sickle and the lollipop...
the telephone the radio the television
the soap opera addicts...
the bedsheets the bed the cushion
the shampoo and soap...
all of it... but none of it at the same time...
with what comes a priori and with
what comes a posteriori...
the dignity of walking...
perhaps the only state of grace...
perhaps less "abilism" and more - upon reflection...
a mother strapped to a bed
after a hip-replacement surgery?
i.e. in a personal, very personal,
non-Teheran specific vicinity?!
perhaps the most basic meditation is required...
nothing grandiose...
nothing temporal or non-temporal...
something basic...
i.e. spatial... a meditation on cross the street
like a mindful hedgehog that you are...
and not panic driven like a mother goose
with her nursery...
walk long enough and you can even
experience bouts of spontaneous amnesia...
which is not related to actual memories
and their totality...
more in the immediacy: amnesia ex cogitans...
amnesia out of thinking...
10 minutes apart and you can almost
forget what you were thinking of...
10 minutes more pass... the labyrinth spits
you out and you recover from that temp.
bout of crucible amnesia: to forget what you
were thinking about...
which is a variant to that other escapism
of day-dreaming...
since you're walking... and no day-dreamer
is synonym of the thinker who also walks...
this variant of escapism comes of its own
accord... perhaps it's an ontological built-in-mechanism
that when you couple walking with thinking...
you'll most certainly experience these
bouts of "amnesia"... which of course doesn't
include walking in circles... but in a labyrinth
of your unconscious motives...
that the body is dissociated from a conscious will...
since... what sort of thinking exists
on a treadmill... or during running... to begin with?
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
dignified in that: one is not so much able
to come across one's best ideas there...
but that one can simply come across... cogitans per se -
yes... i.e.: to be free from cogito ergo sum...
to come across the res cogitans medium...
only while walking...
and not like Descartes imagining oneself
sitting at a desk of doubt...
i find no better alternative: walking opens up...
thinking-in-itself... sometimes that's merely translated
as: being... it does not specify / reveal itself
as a: necessity of narration...
thinking is not narration is not thinking...
if you have experienced the ugly spontaneity of
the ego... in that vein of psychology's
three-tier meta-brain dissection of the mind:
subsequently the soul... blah blah...
now i see... this has become a sit-down meditation...
it has to end...
now that the arms have been employed for
a period longer, than the legs were employed
for, prior.