for the sake of sharing the past

Filled with the inumerous vestiges that mark the hollow from the polite play. As the ambient speak. The walls froth. The pavement sparks. The cobble marks the fold of a sprain. The bloodline warms, and problems lay bare. Exposed by the play. Sometimes I imagine that they are created by my own imaginary world for the sake of them being creatively solved by the iterated thoughts. Some of the inumerous certainly are, some certainly reciprocate at the moment of thought, mutated.

"As long as you can find yourself, you'll never starve."

http://duchesse-2-guermante.deviantart.com/

the weaver and his tiptoes

The gestures of two world. 

The weaver with his double entendre 

and inexorable disaffiliated tiptoes. 

Stretched happy. 

"And the heart is hard to translate
It has a language of its own
It talks and turns and courts sighs and present proclamations
In the grand days of great men and the smallest of gestures
And short shallow gasps"

by http://aceshearts.deviantart.com/

energy imprints in a storybook

In an everyday storybook life proceeds without stops, like the process of stones would not exist, like there would be no sacrifices. In parallel the cosmopolitan transmits her intermitted pauses to something conversations would use as anvils: adaptable in their obnubilations.

We return to the storybook, far from sober, disembodied with the forlorn sleep, with an unreasonable feeling that we belong before. Shelved in an Eocene era. And as stars pop into place in this emerald waters we are abseiled into a life were statues are the most sacred forms of mobile life we can comprehend. And I love you, and I love the unobstructed by inner thoughts where we should never go. Because no railway has ever turned to stone, and before we turn to stone, life we will take a closer look on this book. Before we turn to stone.

http://milky78.deviantart.com/

creatures

Undirected and obstinately holding the epicenter of a pre-historic indigence. As if we were humans. The creatures of the daily life that plunges into the platitudes of the diurnal, and suddenly in the fast interim, gasp and discern something oblivious lost. As if we were humans. ‘We are living in another world. Our having bodies is a farce, an anachronism.’

Stars trickle and like the legs of spider they tic and toe till they, the final spine combine. As if, they were humans. With the thoughtful mainstreams collapse and fine the corporate officer of the mind. And the roaming of the tree top castle tunnels your vision to the life of the sinister.

But in real life the imaginary is far more terrible than reality at hand as it takes place in the void and remains, as Nin notes, untestable. Sewn together loosely to dance and to be more testable to shed ardor. As if we were humans. 

http://bsium.deviantart.com/

dragon

No bearers wield what mighty walls voice and textures insist to endear; to see clearer, and to watch out for dissipations in them tiny dales. Unruly perceptions are among these constants that are cyclical with the moon’s route, that structure and demonstrate sudden confidence and call by an ancient goddess resurrected, to devote and last. And with the fierce of fire prowess, “that which flashes and gleams”, it reconciles my wow.

I believe everyone needs the eternal. But many search the sempiternal.  Why this blatant use of a line? God forbidden. The escape from something god-like have further yielded that many neglects them both. The true temporal is in many ways unfathomable and is often confused by mere experiences. The experience of past, present and future is the phenomena to withdraw, by eternity, from the temporal axis, even though it presupposes her sibling, sempiternity, to extract from, unconsciously. The latter: another realm of happiness.

    

In bed, scrape the fragments of olfactory significance, to tangle to the cloaked particles of the everlasting battle between the dissolved and the engendering. The infatuated and her graveness. A safe distance and its heedlessness. This is always. Drinking a cup of tea with the thieved sword balanced in handle, ready to be slayed by the archangel. To see. This is always, the dragon for this life.

http://lwc71.deviantart.com/

luminal and liminal time

I seem to fall within zones of vexation, drying the sacrosanct of people and beings while nothingness, well-behaved, lie waiting for this indecent sloth to end; the kind of sloth that with its aspiration of relaxation die by its own hand because of the subtleness and turbulence of more or less protruding ideas. But it isn’t like this apathy draws her energy from this essence of her beingness, this sloth, it is more like it is in his very mind to solve this muddle of vagaries, to try behave angelic, like death could never come, and life in this world is nothing for us to form…

where you remain lingering in liminal time between worlds and possibilities.  

http://madscroach.deviantart.com/

ifs and musts

Where something must be there, where never to abandon with speech or thought, where it must be the supreme in darkness of the abyss. As if my ghost stand corrected, questioned to what extent one can surpass, to where one have a place in thy keep.

Plunged in the splinter at this darkness of insurmountable sleep I concoct a velvet fury outside cordiality. You must be there. That is what come anigh and what I must realize. 

http://duchesse-2-guermante.deviantart.com/