Sadly, he wouldn't win the Peace Prize

Jesus was not exceptional because he turned water into wine, or because he walked on water. He was out of the ordinary because he turned the other cheek

Arson

-Why do you feel this fright?
-It's my only delight.
-Why do you always take flight?
-It's my only delight.

Photographs

I dunno
I dunno what to say
to evoke, to scandalise, marginalise
What to do with these words
Figments of time, bit by bit
Splatter over my sky
These dice are rolled every day
Wayward jogger winding way
The gray haze begins to billow
Makes me turn so mellow
Why, why, why the sky?
I just, I wanna keep my feet on the ground
I wanna vandalise my land
Twist the streets
And not just stare from stand
Ephemeral soul seeks stone to turn

The end

Behind the wheel at first
Then comes the thirst
The burst of orgasm
Still a fathomless chasm
But at the fields of moneyless green
The mind comes to keen
A machine no longer machine

When hell first appears
The sight is too fierce
No roar from within
Yellow and grey
United display is achieved
Tantalising decadence
Opalescence for a soul in need

First a dystopia
All black, all grim, all sin
Famine that ravages
Lonely spirit houses savages
Kaleidoscope eyes
No surprise in the skies
The light comes to utopia

Soular System

The world is at your feet. The problem is that most people say "What, it's just there? For free? What's the catch?" You have to take it as it comes, and enjoying every bit, because if you think about it, THERE'S NO REASON YOU SHOULDN'T. Go on a stroll around the orbit of your mind, and stop to admire it, to watch the beautiful blue beneath you, and know that that's where you come from. It takes distance to be able to truly appreciate and understand something, temporal or physical, so in order to know yourself, take a walk outside your spirit.

And just watch.

And in watching, you'll also notice how magnificent the sun is, and you'll bask in the morning light like no one else ever has. Jupiter is also there, but now it's not just a point among endless glowing periods, it's really there. A giant planet, rings slowly spinning, radiating.

Mars, it really is there, is your neighbour. Mostly you look at it, and you know it's supposed  to be there, but you've never quite seen it, never taken a quick tour along the hallways. But the rumours are true, it's red, it's round and it's there.

Finally, you discover there are satellites spinning around, beaming waves down, and feeding the planet with so much information, and it's something we never realize. It's thanks to those that you can even read these words. And they're there, all hundreds or thousands of them.

Then, you come back. And you look to the sky, and you don't see Jupiter or Mars, much less the satellites, and the sun is small and insignificant, but you know they're there, and you have full awareness of their existence.

Perspective is for free. It's there, you can grab it. Tax free. But the rebate is more than you can imagine.

Storm of Insanity

So many thoughts, but not a coherent one
Abstractions of higher being
Lower being
Philosophy for little children
There's no trepassing
Only glancing at the meadows beyond
Feeling the fresh wind of rain
Flesh and only flesh
The jester knocks at the door
The bumblebee soars freely
I spin and I spin and I spin
But my anchor's chains are diamond
Diamond and lead
My mind billows around my being
But impermeable am I
Unliftable am I
Stoic and statue
Under the weight of sanity

Where?

A foot on shore and one in sea
A desire to see
And really feel
The real wind, the real stream
A glimpse of nature's dream
Feel not the leaves against my skin
But against my soul
To truly feel whole
Outside this world of no kin

Anachronism

It's not that the best things in life are free. It's just, they were around even before money was invented

Wake up

Wake Up
by Win Butler, William Butler, Régine Chassagne, Timothy Kingsbury, Richard Reed Parry and Howard Bailerman


Somethin'
filled up
my heart with
nothin',
someone told me not to cry.
But now that
I'm older,
my heart's
colder,
and I can see that it's a lie.
Children
wake up,
hold your
mistake up,
before they turn the summer into dust.
If the children
don't grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our get
torn up.
We're just
a million little god's
causin' rainstorm
turnin' everything good to rust.
I guess we'll just have to adjust.
With my
lightnin' bolts a glowin'
I can see where I am
goin'.
With my
lightning bolts a glowin'
I can see where I am
goin' to be
when the reaper he reaches and touches my hand.
Better look out below!


It's a fine between music and poetry. Song by The Arcade Fire

We are but couches

Goods? A misnomer, if you ask me. More like unnecessaries. Books and CDs and movies aren't what first comes to mind when goods are mentioned, but they're more good than most goods. People want to have, have, have, but how many want to be, be, be? They live not for themselves, they live for goods, never realizing that the only real good is them. They're not their skin and their spleen, they're their ideas, they're mind. Healthy mind, healthy body? Likely. But the inverse isn't necessarily true. At all, really

The progress of civilization is but the progress of comfort. The progress of longevity. Who among us has seem real progress of state of mind? Who among us should really care what their house looks like if it's home? Whose dream is a Ferrari and not another dream? We all strive for the material and for the spiritual, but who strives for their heart's prize instead of their eyes' or their hands', or their genitals, really? Stuff is nice, no doubt. But the problem is when stuff becomes the stuffing inside our skin

Live and let go, live and let flow

Blow

A song, a ballad, a thin rope around the waist,
Can you feel the taste of hope humming along?
Undertow, undertow, let me see your tape unwound,
Your breast exposed,
The true colour of your eyes.
Carry me where I may go, but will you never show
That sweet sweet face of yours
That ego that I’ve come know?

Perspective

favoured are the blissful
in their ignorance of poetry
they taste the nectar full
which the despaired can only seek
the poet's soul knows no existence
it's but a myth and but a sin
to which no man should be allowed admittance
it's but a game, there is no way to win
they know they only dream
My beautiful Calliope,
Will you also be
Ulysses' home, Penelope?
but rhyme is but a pipeline
an excuse for mere insanity
in the end the distance only
can be seen by eyes so lonely

Safe havens are a thing of the past

Globalisation.

It's a nice word. The world coming together, the world not being a group of distinct countries, but only one giant city. The internet makes this reality even stronger, in spite of the paradox that might seem to arise; people linked in so many ways you can't even count them anymore. A real sense of community where everyone can take part in. One big, open-armed village

Or almost.

There are no outskirts. No woods just outside, no river to hike idly along, no trees to mindlessly gaze at. You can look around all the forests in the world, but will never find Walden anymore. Thoreau himself could be reborn today, but where would he take his seclusion? Where could he live in Nature?

Mankind is all over the world now. The problem, of course, is that mankind is all over the world. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide anymore. Everywhere one looks, he sees concrete, he sees people, he sees machinery. But nowhere does he find a spot he can call just his, a spot he can run to when things become too overwhelming. And sadly, being overwhelmed is all too easy, since everything and everyone seems to be just around the corner

No guide, no sign, no love, no death

When I read about Third Cultures Kids, I thought it was a very appropriate, very fitting metaphor. Now I realize that it wasn't a metaphor at all. It's exactly what happens

I have felt like a foreigner on strange lands for a few years now. Every now and then I get a glimpse of home, but much like anything good, it's just flitting. I don't know these people, I don't know this language. And no matter where I go, it'll never be home. Home, unlike is usually thought, and a bit like heaven and hell, is not a physical place, but a state of spirit. I don't know where my home is anymore, and nothing will apparently ever make sense until I find it. Unless I've already found it, but forgot to write down the address. Don't you ever get that feeling of walking by somewhere and knowing that that place is significant somehow, but you just don't know why?

All I want is a place I can come back to whenever I need. And not a real place, but a corner of my mind where I can just sit and drink hot cocoa, not a worry in sight. Maybe that's my undertow, afterall. No matter how dark, or how late it gets, the fire that lights my dark study is endlessly ignited. However, it's also the searing touch that wakes you up every time you get just that close to bliss. I don't know what kindles it. Maybe I never will. I guess no one really knows. I just want to sit down and watch the flames dance their eternal tango

Balance is not the evening out of an extremity, it's a constant push towards the middle. Of course, much like anything else, that in itself is also a double-edged sword. I want to get burnt at this fireplace so that I'll always know where it is, so that I can come back to it when it's too cold outside and I just need some warmth, nothing but a little cozy heat

Only eyes can see beauty, not the mind

      Beauty is a concept that, much like any other, changes over time. Some people cling to the old contexts, for fear of letting them go and not being able to grasp anything else. Some others cling to them simply because they're stubborn. But the ebb and flow of time makes it harder and harder for things to last, with every day and every second that goes by.

      Beauty isn't being married to someone, it's loving someone. Beauty isn't admittance to an Ivy League school, it's a good education.  It's having your feet on the dash, admiring the sunset from a car moving down a highway from somewhere far to somewhere even farther. It's not being free, it's knowing where freedom ends. It's not visiting the Champs Elysées, it's visiting Les Halles. How many artists write songs about supermodels and Halle Berry, instead of about what's real, at least what's real inside? The muse isn't an idea anymore, the muse is your lover, your friend, your trip.

      There are people who see beauty in their own terms who have allowed me to see it in mine, and that in itself is also beauty. It is the ability to see beyond what you expect to see, to see what you really see, like a child. A child always sees, and then thinks about what he saw in terms only of what he saw, not of what he thought before seeing. It is much like the best scientist, the one who always sees, whether it's what expects to see or not, and then proceeds to test and to form his theories. In the end, science and beauty aren't concepts that are all too distant to each other