collage

Once I was said, "Best ideas come from others". That was neither aghast revelation, nor a cliche got rid of dust. Ideas. They penetrate our brain cells, and move them. Modify them, lead them in different direction, and what is most important different dimension. Darker dimension, dimension yet undiscovered, unrevealed, unknown. And yes, that is in what I believe . Brain cells copulation, doomed melody of unsecured spaceline, avalanche of priceless ideas. Road to somewhere else. Fareaway from the one you think you will be following. Collision of two different discourses, and their combination. Mixture like a painted picture. Makes sense as a whole, as a result, as a consequence, we realize its eminent impact. Discourse leads us further without conscious endeavor.How ideas are bound with emotions, this is more than a plausible hypothesis. Vicious circle creates another one, one becomes perplexed.
I would love to tell you, I have my own thoughts not afflicted by emotions. This is the unitary entity of an invidual, when emotions hardly can be separate from ideas, because cooperation and constant calamity brings about just fog above. And we are physiologically predisposed, or restrained, to have a certain set or repertoir of emotional , as well as cognitive processes.
This sounds so fatal, so deterministic, so prisonry.
Unless one realizes the power of will, I'd say free will as Hobbes or many others would refer to, even though will is always free. I am very glad for the will, is it the only capacity that makes us free humans?

listen to the raindrops
played by piano keyboard
cry cry and cry
out of that polluted heart
silently within
the keynotes
find myself
as a prisoner of love

ode for misery

we always will, always will , be lonely
till that while will come the while will come
when disguise will shovelled, just shovelled be
then we will die, will die
lost

we all are just beggars for life...

When life comes heavy, and meaningless as we sense the imminent approaching of death, one might wonder what comes to play to decide for euthanasis. Is it the strenght or weakness of a person? Is it an unbearable intensity of one's own suffering? Isn't life per se just a battlefield where we are wound, and healed, and wound, and wound again, without healing. Suicide is basically a mental euthanasis, as I think. One suffer mentally in such a great extend, that the universe is not universal anymore, one doesn't find the roots of own identity within it. I often wonder, how people, as often seen senselessly, decide for the end of their life. We disdain it, but who is the possessor, the owner of our own physical, and mental cage? WHo? You? Who ELSE? No hands raised?
But who is here to say that we euthanasis as a consequence of perceived and experienced physically, and as a result also mentally unbearable state of pain is somehow allowed. Society has decided to agree with that at least. How come that mental suffering followed by suicide is considered...no it is not even considered..
I am not here to say that when one feel mentally on the edge of bearable threshold of pain, one should end life. I am not encouraging it, but rather to say, that the way it is perceived and regarded by society is just a creation of society, and we passively take it as a social construct of ours. The is an insidious danger when regarding reality as an ultimately real phenomenon. And we are disposed by filter when regarding it. Filter created by society, culture, past experiences, history, and history again, and you too. You are also an influencing factor of my filter. This little slate of mind is one omnipotent calory, as being used and being feasted, its engine help us understand and predict the reality. And as shown above in case of suicide also misunderstanding, and toward-social-pressure-and-scoial-constructs vulnerable piece. To use it, means to shape it more and more dynamically, as a roller coaster spinns over and over, and every turn is not the previous one. (So there is nothing repeated twice, because just time makes different when it is described linguistically as previous, current, next).

To be honest, I often feel desperate, possitively, or negativelly. Yes, I really mean possitively desperate. As I stand, speachless, at the edge of a huge conundrum called LiFe. Or The Earth. Or life on the earth. We all are pretty fortunate to be able to witness:
evening sky mourning. trees blooming and getting hollow. meeting the eyes. the energy around, the eminency of mother earth, and her vices.

But as we come to a closer look, we see, we all are connected by sharing the soil, the one poor witnessing garden of tears, battlefields of spiritual fights, the place of embraced beauties.

I guess, I intended to talk about euthanasis, and the right for renouncing this earthy connection. I came far far from that idea. But this is a sort of therapy for me. I write as my thoughts are popping out, forgetting some of those fighting for asserting their own words. And the same way, as every single thought is fighting for being a significant one, we fight with the earth, with life, to leave our trace, our own artwork, forgetting that the earth has a sandy quality.

With love to the earth,and to you,

lost in understanding

a pigeon just landed on a near- by anthene of neighbour' s house. What does he see? Crops of love , or fields of misery? Oh, he cannot see because he doesnt have consciousness, as would add cognitive animal- consciousness- hating scientist . Oh, a poor bird. I would lend him my consiousness solely for the sake of science falsification. {and my vindication}
Who are we to say that animals dont possess consiousness? We have created the construct of it, defining it in categories senseless for pigeons. And owls. And also dogs.
We stand here and there, creating the sense in non-sense, raising everything HUMAN on a pedestal. We wanna approach closer the self- transcendence, by defining us, our exceptional capacities, depressing everything what comes into well-traced journey.
Self-possessed, and self- obsessed world of humans, is just one bubble among others. As Popper would say, there are three worlds and three different perspectives on looking at the world.

therefore,

Is world looking at us, or we are looking at it?

Fresh air is coming through the window. You are half- sleep barely realizing all sacred circumstances encroaching your senses.
Succumbing your chin into the edges of your sharp knees, violently pressing down, more and more, your joints are hopelessly screaming, you are ful of dreams. You, one pure figurine on a battlefield of your own fatigue, you come and go, and go further exploring kingdom of the heavenly dreams. As an outrageous snowflake, relentlessly dancing through the sunbeams, in a portrait of my imagination, I am swinging on the ropes of your dreams.

Warning sign.

I am sneaking in, sensing the cruelty and non-chalance, discovering...I am far away from being a part of them.

Dedicated to all hopelessly romantic dreamers.

paradise call

Spring has come. Certainly. I can see it in your dancing eyes, in trees bending down to me saying : "miss, you look pretty today", in cascades of morning dew on my barefeet, in prettines of blossoming greenery, and green blossoms, in talking leaves, in my own solace for better days, for better light on my life journey. In book pages, you can catch sight of me, swinging from the beginning to the end. You wake up one morning out of that wintery hybernation, ready for socializing with that stranger on a street, with a new book in a park, with birds perching on willow trees. Winter somehow prevents us from socializing, brings laziness in blankets and cups of tea, reading a book under a sad-looking lamp, with every page read welcoming sleep.

Are we all the same, celebrating spring on HER whistle announcing love for lovers, song for birds, poem for dreamers?
Spring brings us closer to how it looks in paradise. Nobody imagines paradise as cold cave, greenless walls, and airless chambers. If spring is love for air penetrating all your senses, love for every step approaching sunful lust, love for colored pieces of every sight you give, a love for people reading in parks, love for majestic creativity of the earth, can you feel that easiness on your chest recently?
Everything has a smile. A life. An ardent look. No injuries. Just palpable curiosity.
Everything evokes idiosyncrasy missed a second later, created in new image.

When spring comes, a sudden lust for echoes in deep wells overreigns me.
I wanna scream out of that easiness in my chests:

Thousand times good night to a winter!

i am in love

Orion , oh , Orion
forget you name,
and I 'll be yours
forever in your arms
lingering I'll be
infinitely happy
wondering I'll be
insanely colorful
my soul will be
forget your orbit
and I'll forget mine

a week doesn' t have seven days since yesterday

Again here. Here? Where here? In my mind or roots of my consciousness?
It is not easy at all. Neither mind nor the focused part of it, consciousness is going to explain it all. The mess. The chaos. The inevitable force of energy within each of us.
Close. We are getting close. Approaching maybe? Touching the edge of our consciousness?
Ha. Like the overbrimming of the wine glass full of that sparky illumination. Consciousness. Yes. there it is. Pressing against the inner edges of the wine glass waiting to be discovered, to be part of our momentary reality, to conquer our ideas and dreams. And we? Are we just simple helpless victims of forceful conscious stream? We are initiators. Apparently. Initiators with closed eyes, opening eye-lids does not help. Ears are deaf, taste buds intact to react.
Shut off all the sensors, all the bullets impatiently waiting for THE beams of perceivable. Yes? No?
Imagine the beams shooting from the outer world on us while consciousness wants to be here. Here. Map of our mind. The map of our ideas. Here it comes. Within the wine glass, with the seasons of our senses that have to be shut off. Like switching the code for dressing locker. Like on. Or off. Consciousness possesses the right code. For us. To be realized. to be processed.
Our senses are just tools upon which consciousness can interact with external world of shooting pressures of informations. Informations contain signs we have to recognize if we want to be conscious of them, but for it not be be so simplistic we filter those informations by rule of previously perceived informations. Those have individually relevance value.
Approaching external world, we use senses alongside with consciousness, we assume to be approaching reality. But here is the questions, as phenomenologically proposed, as we a part of reality, we as producers of unique experience created out of perceived situation, by projecting our own previous private experience, spirituality, relevance of situation, beliefs, and intuition, we are becoming part of this reality...therefore are we able to know the reality per se? Is reality a reality of every single unique human entity?
By every single new situation (new is considered a perceived discrepancy of in closely comparable situations, where consciousness plays role in realizing this discrepancy, therefore certain effort has to be imposed upon deliberately consciousness to be involved in this situation from this moment of realizing the novelty of this situation) human mind become more determined toward certain interpretation of any single oncoming situation. Therefore, senses are not immutable, rather prone by power of consciousness to act in a way dependable on every single stimuli previously involved.
---> senses undergo process similar to phylogenesis of any species.

Imagine a new born child equipped with all senses without any imperfections. Trapped in power of consciousness? Apparently no. Trapped in space and time. InDeliberately.

saturday is bloodier than bloody sunday

I stand under the crying moon, willing to fly over to help wipe its tears.
I go down to the water, I take a look at the reflected image.
I am standing there wiping the tears of moon.


I am standing humble, words chasing each other , then staggering in the row...
"there is always a way..."