The tao of being me?

There is nowhere to go,

this is where I should be,

this is where I need to be

in order to experience me…

There is nothing I could achieve

that I haven’t already achieved,

there is nothing out there for me

except what there already is…

After writing this poem, this is what I told myself:

"How should this be helpful, you serene bastard? Have you lived? Have you got bills to pay? Have you got to do the grocery and to cook and to clean? And do the fucking laundry? "

What about dreams?

 – the struggle to get a grip on dreams and ideas –

A dream is a delicate, fickle thing. Only those who understand that it is alive, will  be able to touch it, to sense its presence.

As a living thing, it desires to remain where it is. Opposed to changes, there is not much of a choice, but to follow the laws of entropy. It wants to stay undisturbed, in the dark, the warm and secure place… It struggles erratically when unearthed, winds itself from your grip – my grip, at least.

There are other ripe dreams and ideas with brilliant, vibrant colors, glowing from below the surface of the subconscious waters. Acting as perfect homing beacons for motivation and desire…

But this all feels like catching smoke with bare hands. 

So? What is the nature of a dream? 

For one, it is a mirror image to its creator, not only mirroring but comforting its creator. 

A dream always has a purpose, a mission. It serves its creator, the best it can.

Broken off of intentions and phantasies, it is a shard mimicking its creator.  Besides that, it is a  fractal of imperfection and  inaccuracy, distorting the emptiness within the unknown regions of a human mind. It bears the innate inertia of its origin, the legacy of a chemicals soaked addicted brain. It is summoned into view, by a tireless, impatient heart, fueled by some kind of desperate hope.

It becomes a clouded copy, because the creator is bound to love it, to believe in it… To nurture it…

This fractal is imposed upon the usual paths the conscious thinking moves (also upon the strings, hooks, shortcuts and backdoors within), it creates regions of power – traps, basically.  Regions of desire and  fear, regions of gravity. Loops. Regions of enlightenment, if exposed and recognized. Their pull is barely recognizable, but it bends the ways of ideas.  A region revisited in a short time, easily becomes a habit.  And with short time I mean the matter of 3 to 6 weeks.

A habit… This is when the consciousness loses the game.  This resilient, contagious structure becomes a habitual thinking pattern. The dangerous bit: its invisibility and its invasiveness.

This marks a blind spot… An untrained conscious is quick with swallowing blind spots. It doesn’t even hesitate with denial about the sole fact of incorporating it… 

So what can one do? Stay focused? Wait for an accidental find? Hunt for it?  How do you hunt for something invisible?

 

the daydream I can’t shake off

The love of my life is fickle.

With every move, with every turn, time brings me further away from my love, but its sweet image nearer to my heart.

It trickles between my fingers, running away.

A hologram of happiness, desire and pain. A flickering glimpse onto something like inner peace, a delusion pinched from a clouded dream.

There is that tiny space, where I belong.

Only a spec on the map of reality.

In those nights and dawns, spent in the silence of that milky yellowish grey of the sky, my love becomes more vivid than anything around me. Or anything inside me…

I keep imagining that I’m on a space station in orbit, and look down on that filthy place I call home. A wonderful and terrifying place I origin from. Itself equally an enigma, truthfully lied, made up and real, beautiful and ugly.

I am ashamed and proud. Even that contradiction is heartfelt and true to me. Equally me, equally not me…

a record keeper

WHY I WRITE – a Chuck Wendig prompt

I fell in love with stories.

It hit me one day, without warning.

I remember it perfectly. I was about eight years old, and it was a rainy afternoon in November. Outside, everything was washed grey, silhouettes started dissolving into the murky atmosphere. Dust washed away with dirt water… Even the sunlight through the rain clouded more than it revealed.

Somehow, everything about my childhood seems grey, hollow and vague. I grew up in a socialistic land on the brink of revolution, and its aftermath. Nothing was like it ment to be…

That day, I stood at the balcony door and stared out into the rain. Below, people were busily running around, surviving the strains of everyday life. I thought of my everyday life, and I didn’t like the pictures forming in my mind. I hated my everyday life. The ink stains on my thumb fore- and middle finger itched. I saw no differences, no contrasts, just boundaries and limitations.

That cursed moment I felt my heart bursting with anger, fear and frustration. There was no way I could escape that grayness around me; in me… No matter how far I went, what I did, it won’t rub off. Ever. It was etched under my skin, in the tone of my words, it was the background noise of my dreams. That special kind of grey, it will always be part of me. It will always stay there, dulling my senses, my thoughts, my emotions.

I was lost.

The pain of swallowed glass shards and strung heart kept me company for a quite a few years after that day.

I started writing. That day, I started writing a little story. I don’t remember it any more, only the ruled paper and the unevenly scribbled sentences stretching from one end of the line to the other, in purplish ink.

Something happened. In that domineering conformity of grey, the paper seemed glowing snow white, although I soiled it with my pen. It was different. It was new. It was; I was dumbstruck.

I felt the lash of a whip over my head, a cracking thunder, or  maybe a sudden notion of meaning (though I never had the right words for that, just an overwhelming pull to the Inside-of-whatever-that-Was). I remember how desperate I was, not knowing what to do, or who to tell. What was going on? What happened to me? I kept wondering, how long this state would last. What should it mean to me? Wrecking my brain for a solution, for any solution, I got none…

Thinking back, I’m convinced that something important hid itself. Something that mattered and still matters to me, I guess. But like all (really) important things, it’s invisible, untouchable, not tastable, not audible… I know it’s there, it pulls me.

It still plays hide and seek with me. It makes me crazy! It is on the tip of my tongue, and I´m not able to reveal it to the world, nor to myself. I dubbed it my core, my everything, my love, my dream.

The struggle began: I wrote, it ran through my fingers like sand. I wrote, it changed shape. I wrote, it dissolved into thin air.

So I wrote…

With time, I´ve achieved tools of revelation : words, languages, pictures, stories. In that sensible time of my life, I fell for stories. I truly did, as soon, as I realized, they ment freedom, they were my escape route. I was so happy, that I could explore the infinite silhouette of That-which-refuses-to-show-Itself…

You know, the wonderful thing about stories is, that they manage to still my hunger, my anger, my anxiety. Which is pretty impressive, I can tell you that!

I´m not sure if I have a style, or talent of any kind. I´m not sure, if I´m even good at what I´m doing, nor that I´m ment to have success with it. But that is not the point. What I do, I need to do. I´ve got a regular job, which keeps my brain distracted from this obsession. It distracts me from my tracks and fakes my needs. It holds up my hunt. Frustrating that is, being caged up like this… I´m a physician. I have to help others.

Can´t wait that others will help me one day, cause that´s not happening. Never does. Writing is my own medicine. Storytelling is my doctor. It keeps me grounded. It keeps me happy and… sane. Yes, I know, it sounds pathetic – it’s therapy.

As it is, it helps me to observe ´n recognize, what I´m not able to see under my own power.

I don´t think, I´m a writer, or artist. There is no art in what I´m doing. I´m only recording, what´s happening inside… I may not be a good record keeper either, but I try. So my writing is more a documentary work. It is proof, that I exist… Somehow…

Does this make any sense? I don´t know.

thoughts on shuffle

IMG_3447There are places, which make me stop and think for a while. 

I’ll be more precise.

The feeling they give me, makes me stop. Suddenly I have not enough breath in my lungs and my feet stretch to touch the core of the planet. A weird kind of buzzing fills the space between my ears…

I’ve been here before, haven’t I?

And then I’m empty. It is some kind of blankness. A cold sensation in my stomach. I start to doubt that I’m hermetically locked into my skin. For a moment I’m sure there is a hole somewhere. Something ripped through me, and I didn’t notice. I’m leaking. Or maybe the world is seeping into me. I know it will squeeze me into my every pore, into every wrinkle of my being, pushing me to the outer rim of what uses to me be…

Movement stops.

I fall.

At least, I think it is some kind of falling sensation. A random plummeting to the ground. Downward sucking notion, but without the wet kissing thud at the end. Without hitting any surfaces, without the crashing and breaking, without the impact… Just falling. 

In those moment – I have hope. Hope to find my purpose, my place in the world I inhabit. The hunch I need to grasp the meaning behind all this…being-human thing. It is almost a fully formed thought, a nearly recognized feeling.

I have been here before, haven’t I? 

Isn’t it ironic? I can’t seem to realize it…

flashbacks

Why is it, that suddenly everything starts to gravitate towards the edge?
Those jagged edges of the you-shaped hole chew away my reality.

I let my fingers, thoughts and heart brush over it. Just to be sure, it is there. I’m not imagining it. Not imagining you.

Sharp. I cut myself remembering you. Missing you… Returning to the same spot. Hurting again.

Sometimes it’s a cracking sound, sometimes a wet ripping… Sometimes the gut twisting silence I’m forced to listen to.

And then… What a relief! There you are! Behind my eyelids. You move. Somewhere. Somewhere far away. You stir. The perfume of your skin, your lips and that wicked happy-to-deadly smile flash back, blind me.  Freeze me. Stop me. Stop my time. That smile…

It burns.

Why is it, that your pull influences my days and nights, my every dusk and dawn?

Why can’t I sleep? Not in our bed, only cramped on the sofa or at the dining table?

The emptiness beside me rips me into waking. Drags me back into the cold and the light… Another day…

Why is it, that I dream of the touch of your fingertips? That I phantasize your movements, next to me, under the sheets… Your breathing… Why can’t it be otherwise? My life… Only without you.

Still.

Your sweet humming and singing keeps me company. In my head, your voice comments and laughs, as if amused; points out the little details you used to notice…

Why must I …

Why can’t I move on?

brain storms

(Interstellar)

*

I was once trapped.

Caught and bound.

Wrapped in bones,

flesh and blood and skin.

A hostile universe tied

to me, inside of me.

I knew it, deep down,

felt it move.

Felt is grow.

Dressed up into

my own delusions,

in my own pictures

of the world and me-

it’s leather on skin,

thought on fact,

flesh on bone,

time on space…

Good intentions on sins

clean gloves on dirty hands

Me on me.

And another me.

Infinitely.