April in Paris…

Till April in Paris, Chestnuts in blossom…

In Paris will I be, in April in Spring. How funny life is, sometimes. The charm of coincidences, these little things that fall into place under the light of being, of knowing.

Now my beloved friend from the river of Isar explores the land where I rose, the upside down world from ten thousand miles away. And here I am, by the Swiss Alps.

Tomorrow my dear Piotr will visit me from Paris. As another friend from the mountains land in Paris in preparation for the grand finale. And I, will soon be in Paris for our beloved Fryderyk…

My dear friend, a black bird, has left not so long ago. She returned to the small town in the West where I shall visit in the Summer.

And just as Spring ends, my old friends from across the Earth shall pass by my new home, and we shall have tea.

I have yet to rehearse with my old friend in the palace from the cold North, the friend whom I have encountered many years ago in a foreign land from the far East.

And to those who visited my home some years ago. We shall meet here, at the centre of the arts…

Everyone gathers, everyone parts. Those who follow, and those who stay. Those who return, and those who wait.

We may cross paths, or we may walk along the silver strings.

How I battle with myself sometimes, how I never could understand this being with whom I forever am acquainted, yet strange to. How this irritating yet, never-ending contradiction revels in me.

The insurmountable pathos of love is also, the pathos of being.

Published in: on 18/02/2016 at 8:24 AM  Leave a Comment  

Dear Sorrows

My life is like a dream, in which I swim towards clarity. Yet how can I know what clarity is if I was never awake? I patiently wait for death – the moment when I shall wake up in a cold empty stone garden, where light forms its only element. I live in my own mind. Reality seems like an incomplete mirage of the shards from my afterlife. I live towards completion, towards my awakening, towards death. Yet how this piece sings on and yet it seems all is under the purview of my reflections and foresights. I know nothing, yet I see the closed circle that this movement will be. But will that life after death be a better, a more forgiving one? When can I escape from this nightmare and who will save me?

Who can break this necessary pathos of the romantic ideal? How shall I brew the potion of my mastery with all the sadness of this world yet be loved for it? How can I love? Whom can I love? What is love? 

All hope seems to me lost in the world of mortals. Who with a pure heart will walk through the mystical labyrinth of ideas? Who will sing for me? In whose presence may I truly find consolation and peace? I must walk alone. I must dwell in the mountains, with the birds and the trees, with the snow and the rocks, and walk, and walk, and walk…. Until I die; until I am awake. 

Published in: on 02/02/2016 at 8:05 AM  Leave a Comment