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!