Fantasías Breves 28.04.009

La arquitectura
que a tí allí exista
no fue desarrollada por la alma humana.

Se siente perpetualmente
como extraterrestre;
la vida diaria—a él—no pertenece.

Desiertos de la mente ciertamente
(casi siempre)
se causan a él de perderse;

desaparece cada noche—
te acerca, te acerca;
es ti.

Cosas que he escrito
me griten en los sueños—
y me levanto temprano;

estoy solo, soy frío.
El resto de la vida seguirá tal.
Ya no encuentro el mismo sentido

de conocer a otro. Ha desaparecido.
Y el resto de la vida seguirá tal.
(Tantos días me han pasado.)

Hours 29.06.010

we are nothing in these silent hours.

as we were once; so are we not now.

the seeds of a dying flower disperse, to foster new life;

shards of a life will not grow, 
retaining a lesser and ever-fading glow

of things that may once have been.



schisms of the mind have no will of their own,

and will not grow—

but flatten.



and too soon, the world has been leached of its light.
nuclear waste into fertile ground;

our only hope is fluke-mutation—

and if we can manage to further the race,

what of our own splintered selves?



how faint the glow.
how unified in blindness and

anonymity of the mind.



Death to the Art—

and Death where Life alone should blossom.



the words are greying the pages are greying the pens are greying,

my fingers—

they are Grey:



and i am withered.

and i remember not of Myself.

The Quintessence of Dust 04.02.007

Y: The only thing I can think of saying is that you may find that [love] again.

X: I don't know if I want to

X: it's really frightening.



It is the nature of Love that it recurs, and that it frightens you to the point of neuroticism-- because it is the most terrible thing in this world. Most terrible because we have no control over it, and it tosses us about like rag dolls. Knowing that you will always be prey to the clutches of Love can be comforting, because it will always be there, either in happiness or sadness. Everything can be spoken in terms of love; even a lack of love is still a definition in terms of "love."



You will find it again-- not only that, but love is something you encounter every day. Some days, you can feel the way the earth and the seasons respect and admire you; other days, you love yourself; and still others, you find remnants and traces of love in others. Some people have a stronger dose than other individuals, and those are the people we tend make the hub of our lives, if only for a time [and what is time but everything; even if you love someone all your life, your life will end some day; your life is subject to time, and-- in the weaker of two possible cases-- so is your love].



But you may yet find a person with whom you share such a collection of Love that it spills over into other people, and the two of you will spark the connection between other protean lovers and new-found couples, whom otherwise would have crossed paths without a backwards glance. This is how love can exceed the bounds of life and time; Love is above us-- and more appropriately, beneath us; underlying [it is hypokeimenon-- look it up on Wikipedia]. Love is like magic-- it does not belong to us, but the most skilled mages can wield it fiercely and with deadly, horrific, and awesome intent. You can pass your connections to others; let them be the conduit for the Boundless, for Quiddity, for that dream-sea from whence comes the origins of the word "soul" [seula-- again: look up "soul" on Wikipedia].



Whether or not you find just one person with whom to share your stores of love, it will find you again. And you'll hate it for all the memories in your system, but you will come to love it for the system itself; for what it has done to you, for the person you have become-- in spite of, with, and without [love]. It transforms you.



Your self-love, and the manner in which you can collect and trade love with others-- regardless of their potency or yours-- will be an inspiration, and an impetus in the workings of our world. Love is the oil which drives the clockwork that deists say God abandoned so long ago.



I love you-- do the best you can to spread it around, or hoard it to let loose on the loved one of your choice. Use it well, when you find it. Remember that I love you.

31.08.016

We happened upon a mutual presence through our well-timed sufferings, fell into it like divers into bottomless pools, black and glassy with kept promises of absolution.

There were tears, and there was commiseration, and for hours and hours the sadness felt a little more human.

Desire coupled with suffering, suffering with desire, and he was there, curling into every part that mattered: nestling there, cradling, pulling me to him-- and he to me.

The hours were slow; breezes and their chimes promising to us Spring, rebirth.

Light spilled in through your windows.

And we sunk to the floor, molting from our clothes, and sweet
and sweet
and sweet

and O! how I needed you then;
how I love you now.