Staring into the Wall

The Artist and the Philosopher stands on the opposing edges of the world. I, suffer the torment of a twisted mind, a shattering heart, and a displaced soul. I yearn for beauty yet away beauty floats. My love begins dying the moment it was born. Roses appear redder in snow, blood staining the bitter cold. Music is a poison, she caresses me like the wind passing by, I cry, I wish to fly, my dreams they come by, let me sleep, let me dream. The sound of winter haunts and whispers, a non-existing picture sinks into my eyes, I am taken. I am taken, and shall never return again, never return yet abandoned again; I scream in anguish my tears gone dry. An apple, a mirror, an anchor, and a clock. I watch the tickling clock, as each second passes by, I throw my anchor into the sea, yet nowhere it may land, I stare into the mirror… I hold the rotting apple, awaiting for the finale. That, is all I can do. A swan quill is dyed in blood wine, ink of moon dust and paper champagne. Some lead here and there, some sketches of faces, of cities, shall soon be washed away, like old memories of the dying, alone, dying. So much colour that I can no longer stand, in a burst of flame I turn everything into colourless shades. Peace. Quiet. Silence. The smoke fills the air. The night glows with twinkling fairies, a defect in the eye, an impression. If god exists, he must be a very imperfect creature, an ill being, for how can a perfection be said of a world so chaotic and empty? Doubts and certainty. The doubt of life. The certainty of death. The inevitable. The anguish, the torment. The blessed and the cursed. The blood turning purple, turning blue, and black. The sands and the stones. The river, the riverbed, the flowing water. Love, the pathos of love, the death of love. Love can never be, for love is the verkaufer of death. And freedom, the anchor – we are never free, nor can puppets know their masters, this, is the paradox, this, is the tragedy. Being is a tragedy. Life is a tragedy, an epic tragedy. The appreciation of suffering, the search for beauty, an artist’s path is no different to that of a philosophers, they stand on the moon, the same moon. The artist finds light, the philosopher finds the shadows. Why are memories so cherished? Why do we long for the past? Because the past is our story, for life is but a novel. We are the directors, actors, and the audiences of our life. We never are in the present, for the present always happens too quickly, we are always in the past, always. We weep over our long gone memories because only in the past can we see the beautiful, for the audience can only view a film after its production. Yet the past is never here. We can never grasp what we want, never. Never is a long time. So is forever. Life is a cycle of endless yearnings, for those yearnings can never, never be replied. Death gives meaning to life, because the future is no longer an endless abyss, the future is a gate, the gate of death. Death, is our only refuge, death, is what we must accept, and face, and with appreciation and the utter most grateful heart. This sadness… Shall it ever go away? Who are the masters of deception? Who are the authentic people? The mist. The frost. The cold dry air. The daunting cosmos. The chain of insufficient reasons. The world of paradoxes. The night, the silence. Words. Songs. A gift of melancholy.

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Published in: on 09/07/2013 at 11:48 PM  Leave a Comment  

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