about the quality that sustains the chances to perceive the world qualitatively.

for those of us whose threshold of sensitivity of world perception floats beyond the standards of humankind, threshold neither of visceral nor neural quality, maybe combination of both what does not equal the sum of them,the quality wallows in the quasi-impossible dimensions regarding from the point of standby stranger.

This is that fallacy, because it has its own existence within the realm of my existence, maybe yours too, as far as I perceive it. Simply quality and maybe quantity of train of thoughts described by J.S. Mill is a proof of possessing that quality. where this mesmerizing quality belongs to is my question. it is not a mere cognitive capacity, because capacity implies the quantity that plays just secondary role when taken into account.
Whether the human existence is harmed by it, and suffering as we could describe it, is a question. We, unfortunately, do have the right to ascribe it the negative connotation of suffering, as long as we see ourselves as solitaires in this concern. I have the endeavor to express myself, however, vaguely, concealingly. When you have experienced climbing up a tree and slowly sliding down, you have an idea of my state of mind. There is energy and effort, but the accomplishment lies far behind that. You lose it, and suddenly found it when not necessary anymore.

sunset orbits around heaven
gives me an infinite zen
sunrise closes its infinity
by the wink of morning face
i am right here to give you a story
trying to find a right place
i am just heading to the destination
unknown
this is the time to spend night alone

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i am a star
a fallen star
an open scar
an unfinished war
sitting in hangar
please, please, please
don' t let me fall

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Ice crumbles in the chronicle
of me and you, the pyramid
and we are nothing more
than ephemeral ice cube
floating on your heating body
after the moon cried in you

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Swallowed by the grains of your imagination
I wallowed in you
close enough and far away
like tulips smell after hours of lovemaking
I am getting nowhere
So i wallow swallowed

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Love Love Love
just a piece of flesh
just a dew on flowerpetals
lost sailing ship
you meander
until the dead end
you are so far from me

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when life without you would be metaphor for infinite happiness

where does it end and where does it goes?
the lady with that rainbow umbrella walked on the street full of chestnuts, and didnt look at me. you laughed that it is not important whether somebody devotes a look , a smile or even a gaze to you. you looked at me, laughing, smiling, and that made a difference in the state of my own devotion to you. there is a lonely circle of reinforcement feasted on your face.

How would the world be different when we could recycle rainbow?
And laugh at the death?
And missing black and white color? Would we be missing also black and white thinking?
When metacognition would be just a part of slippery shoes?
When a sound would not matter?
When love would be a metaphor for a lack of hatred?
Or when life without you would be metaphor for infinite happiness?

The train of my own thoughts slips away from the walls of my creativity as digits are being lost when we do not carry money.

Saccades thrills the ripples
of watery surface on the lake
of you and me reflected in it

what follows?

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!