giovedì 3 settembre 2015

Poetry within the dead






I woke up with pain again. Even though hard to handle, I am finally out of the haze. I have been sinking in a vast ocean of numbness, dull and lonely for too long. Persuaded somehow that things would never change, I soaked. It is true that we, human beings, are small and weak when a non-material dimension such as time plays with our psyche as it pleases.
As days were passing by, I grew up skeptical. I was torn between the neediness of a stable life and the eagerness for a diversion, perhaps an after-life. I wanted to experience all of it. Now I am not sure any more. Though the need is still adamantine for there are some emotions that can never be unleashed.

Hence I worshiped eternity. I wanted to hoover between my lifetime and his. Hither and thither, in two different yet paralleled worlds, between existent and non-existent creatures filled with mercy and hatred. I wanted to see the unseen, value and despise, praise and loathe. I needed to metamorphose the ancient pastoral world into the haunting modern fiction. This duplicity anguished my soul and made me feel utterly helpless. This is when melancholy falls.

I was ludicrous to ignore the ephemeral. Everything comes to an end. Yet, there is only a flicker that separates the two worlds I desire: Death. The rest shall remain insignificant.

In order to break the spell between the two spheres I needed to die. Death is meant to be the ending of things, a gesture towards something else. To me, it was merely a movement. I succumbed then I found myself going from earth to earth, ashes to ashes and from dust to dust.

In literature, death is described as a serene transformation, a glory over a long torment. Writers made us envision within the years that anguished souls may find peace after life and that better things are ahead than any we have left behind. That moment you shall beam in the celestial light, floating in an unfinished space called paradise. Death, according to them, is an asylum and a shelter for spirit-drained. Ourselves alone or perhaps surrounded by angels, beneath the earth or over it, roaming somewhere beautiful beyond any possible place you have ever seen before.

However death is not like that. It’s not a place where you find meadows and streams. It’s not a celestial light or a place to beam. It’s not a night or a day. It’s not somewhere you haven’t seen before. It’s darkness. If you were born in sheer and shred in agony like myself then you have already experienced it. I have been dead twice and still dead to be.

Anemic, overcome by lassitude, in languid ease, I looked pale as ivory and weak as an ant. I have been rejected and abominated from both worlds. I would put an endless ribbon of words to describe my state of mind but poisonous things such as melancholia seem rather beautiful in description though hurtful when experienced.

Loneliness increased underneath. Yet, I felt the presence of tremors hidden like the vibration of a note of music. All alone, calm as a child in dreamless slumber, I was entombed in the middle of nothingness. A dark spirit I have become, doomed to endure with the mighty dead. Expired I wished to be, so were the sounds and the lights and soon my heart is to be.

For sure, it was not a triumph over mortality. However, into the hidden depth, I was yearning a resurrection. Jealousy grew within me, a weird loving-kindness for people above me. They who are living happily where they are meant to be. My incapacity of patience had power over me. Dreary hours have I passed and more to be. Confused in the quiet, bewildered and heaviness all around me, I focused with the future and cherished its secrecy. The illusion was sweet but it created oddly bitterness in me.

I missed the brightness, the air, the stream of waters and the warmth. Down there, it was all cold, dark and wet like the jungle. From the shadows, I wanted to fade away. The pressure enhanced perpetually and became a part of me. I could not breathe anymore. I shouted loudly and wanted to overpass the coffin and my own sorrow was pulling me down.

 

The past and its souvenirs seemed beautiful. One never realizes the value of the things he has until it is lost. Within time, I learnt how to appreciate even the worst memories. Thus, the emotions of the present are merely illusions.

And I have imagined my old familiar friend coming and lying down next to me, trying to comfort me and appease my agony. My strong desire for him led me to spleen and huge suffer. He, for whom I wanted to fuse the worlds to reach, convinced me that happiness is in the denial of the desire to live.

Was I too selfish for wanting something that is gone? Was it worth the try? One never knows. I have come to realize that every change is tingled with melancholy. Every regret or memory that flashes before your eyes like a whiff of air must be related to sadness or a lack of satisfaction.

In the meantime, my only occupation to kill time was the Thinking. The black reigning around me inspired only mournful thoughts at first. I envisioned a mixture of the two worlds I knew. Delusional as I happen to be, I sank more into a vacuum of sadness. I was seeking into the maelstrom of the blackest tempest for a drop of joy that would make me forget my grief, so I thought of poetry.  

In poems: Words sing, rivers stream, meadows sway, flowers open and the heart beats. Poetry makes you dwell freely and without limits in a pedestal of emotions. You have the choice by then whether to touch beauty or anguish your soul. The verses are full of tender melodies, unheard but beating in my ear. Rhythmical under my own creation, I made the nature speak.

Music play on, notes I intended to compose. Loudly please, break off the silence. Be the rehab of my broken soul. My passion and abstraction let me linger in your sound and bring me close to the people I love. I have been brutalized by death; the worst over all, now the bad is way behind me.

Serenity reigned, enfolded my tight heart with a tiny stream of joy, and had mercy over me for the pain I have endured. This happened only when I started to think of the infinity.  I tried to loiter in it as the writers of the golden age did. They found their pleasure within its intensity. However to reach infinity you must be a dreamy. Your thoughts have to be limitless and your unconsciousness must speak. Mine praised the fathomless universe and thought about beauty and love. These two primordial recipients, in addition to poetry and music are the secret of my joy. Therefore, I was singing rhymed words all about the beauty of the nature I have imagined in my extreme vision of the infinity and the love I was still keeping warm in me. I smelt the earth, I heard voices, I saw balance.

My soul was capable of generating continuous floods of joy. I saw the seasons changing, a sort of weird beauty descending upon me. I saw a spectrum of lights, blue was my cure and source of tranquility. I enjoyed the lonesome of my pensive thought. I have never really appreciated loneliness until I found myself in this peculiar place. Deep in thought: I was here, there and everywhere. Vast spaces with beautiful faces, pouring laughter and hidden surprises. Sorrow seemed nowhere to be, like an illusion or a torturing hallucination existing only for those who are seeking it.

All the images I have seen in my mind were evolving around seas. The place where I met the man of my dream. He, who awakened my heart once and ordered it to sleep. His world is a part of me now and I am able to meet him whenever I please. Is there better happiness than love? Its grandeur filled my empty soul and created duplicity within me. Now my vision involves two people not only the selfish beast in me. The sharing of this infinity creates a harmony, something incredibly more beautiful than the things I have seen. However, one is always incomplete unless true love happens to gather the two pieces.

I love thee and this is the source of my happiness. Was my sacrifice enough proof for thee? Is there a force bigger than the ending of my life to start a tormenting and undefined journey? My felicity’s weapons were all a mere creation in my dead mind while the reality is as cruel and murdering as the devil himself.

In this peaceful thought of you, I shall keep my calm and my serene state stable. Together with the beauty of my melancholy, that brings a huge wave of inspiration to me, I shall keep loitering in the infinity with him.



sabato 19 luglio 2014

Rupture

There I drew the line delicately between the rags of an unfinished sympathy for the past and the unexpected surprises of the living present. I tend to leave my weaknesses and impotence behind. The lies I used to wear to appease my sleep will soon vanish and I will survive the threatening insomnia as long as it lasts. This not a defeat or an overthrow, it is a detachment. Not a punishment but an improvement. The sense of abandonment kills me but I think of the upcoming achievements. Therefore, I made an agreement and an assignment to abolish my bafflement.


It is certainly an amusement to burst the bubbles of my disappointments. The process of entombment and atonement. This change provides an excitement inspired by a source of illusions and wonderment. My rupture experiment is a field of recruitment of new elements to follow. It is for the past to swallow. The paragraph you are reading now is a witness and a part of my process. In addition to the gift offered by the mind that has the ability to forget, time shall make me forget.


The Nothing




Sometimes you sink into this deep vacuum of obsessions, trying to reach or achieve your dreams that you completely forget about the sweetness of doing nothing. 

When you think of all the inventors and artists that triumphed in history only after at least fifty years of their death… They have worked hard and focused on only one thing for years, trying to make it as perfect as they can. Shrunk in their loneliness, going mad over and over while trying to survive to people’s judgement, they never gave up unless health problems or death came on their way. 

Many names may flash now before your eyes. You would think of Gandhi, Marie Currie or Nelson Mandela… I’m thinking of Joseph Plateau, obsessed with light and movements, he kept fixing the sun for 25 seconds every day until he lost his eyesight. 

Thank you for your hard work.

Consider the words I wrote before as a eulogy and now think:

Was it worth the try? Should we base our lives upon some concrete purposes like they did? Are we as keen as them for changes? 

In this hectic life, I have a dream like you all do. But do I know what a dream means though? It must be that moment when I dwell between the bounded waters where life starts, tiresome ignites and the nothing resides. It is when my eyes go blind and my mind gains sight, when I see no difference between sunlight and moonlight. Only now I have the right to lay in the quiet, in a world all white that seems incomplete without you by my side. The sweet nothing is truly hard to find in a life where obsessions are tight, itching you like the needles of the pines. 

And we are never satisfied, even when we get to enjoy the nothing I was talking about. We then want to get back to the hectic life. So what is our existence all about?

mercoledì 7 maggio 2014

Habit




Monday morning. Where else would I be if not in my office?

As usual, I’m caught up by a hundred of emails I would receive during the day. Same claims, same requests, same problems and updates. After years and years spent in this position, the answer to all those little matters is mechanically the same.   Even the phone ring bell seems to be set instinctively to stimulate my very feeble concentration every five minutes for pleasant and unpleasant conversations. Although these little details pass unnoticed.
 Later on I came to realize that I’ve made some new imaginary friends such as little headaches, sweet eyes pain and then the twins boredom and tiresome. Looking up to the window glass I saw their reflections and somehow I felt this terrible need to tell them this:

“When undertaking the same path, hither and thither, following the same pattern even if I wish to loiter somewhere else...  I am wrapped unconsciously in a fallacy that I have learnt to reckon because it’s what I do normally.
I want him there with me, he who have power over me. There where I’ve come to see, the sweetest part of me, away from thee consuming me. I need to be for once a refugee. I want to disagree and for once fly freely as a bee around the nature that is asleep to me. Be overseas and around the trees, overwhelmed by the lack of boundaries. I would throw away the burden of dust I’ve been carrying with me.  And if death is meant to be, please let him die after me for he doesn't know how precious he is to me.” 

Back to my emails, something weird now runs through me. A little joy within breaking the routine. 

PS: Credit for the picture goes to a sweet friend of mine: KY

giovedì 3 aprile 2014

Places



Frequently and for many abstract reasons, some places embrace you tightly and never let go of your mind. These spaces elicit your innate emotions and disturb the serenity of your meditation, especially when you are dwelling between the rumination from the past and the worry of the future. There is one “place” where my heart freezes. The most dreadful and joyful moments of my life are mingled there. Somehow, I had to experiment all kinds of grief and happiness in that triangle that I’m drowning in an ocean of confusion whether to consider it as a warm place or a tomb.

Moreover life’s lanes are inevitable and in a manner of speaking, you’re meant to be picked out of the crowd.  At first you’re within then you’re without.  When this happens, give in.

Dear readers, this is nothing but a glimpse produced by the labour of my feeble memory. I’m not trying to discourage you but inside, you all know that as a fact. Afterwards what does control your emotions mostly: your heart or your brain? Again, give in.

Now and just in brief, lend yourself a moment to meditate about your creepy “place”. Stop reading.

Back to my poor words, tragic and yet in ground of absolute joy, you’re here, there and somehow everywhere. Caught by these important “places” of yours, unknown to me, you ought to be in a state of inertia or floating overseas. Therefore if you’re alone or in a crowd, within or without, remember: just give in.


giovedì 6 marzo 2014

Hurt

Here goes the pressure again. The air is squeezing my most sensitive muscle. Should I worry most about the lack of breathing or the blinding thoughts? My hands are shaking and my tears are burning. The fear is running through my skull. The more I dig to understand, the more I get hurt. 

In the midst of this tumultuous state, I reach the edge of agitation. Roaming in the room, wailing and howling. Impulses are streaming down my veins, bewildering me and driving me nuts. How long will it take? 
The more I dig to understand, the more I get hurt. 

This overwhelming sadness, what for? My incapacity of love wouldn't be the answer. Neither my loneliess nor the strangness of my character. It is not a fruit of the past or the present. It's not the shadow of my mistakes or the consequence of my sins. It's not because of my weakness and it's not my fault. 

Still the more I dig to understand, the more I hurt. 


mercoledì 5 marzo 2014

Seasons


A walk around the city.


That desire that consumes you most likely between the changing of the seasons.
Some people are craving for the smell of the earth after a rainy day. Others
are amazed by the autumn leaves colour switching from green to red, purple or
whatsoever. Some sit on a bench to catch the flowers opening time-lapse. While most of the people are eager for the sun to lurch closer to the earth.

 These periods come and go like moths, diving from cold to warmth.
My favourite one lies in the transition from Winter to Spring. Therefore, I'd
like to consider a fifth season for my own pleasure and name it: Winsper-swing.

 No violins were set for "winsper-swing" but its silence lingers on, spilled with an earnest and familiar voice of the wind. Hereby, I'm admiring the amber-tainted skythrough my shades and as I gaze, I couldn't help myself from thinking about Baudelaire's "Brumes et pluies" when he expressed his love for seasons for enfolding his heart and mind entirely.

 Would it be too much to ask the time to freeze and let me dive eternally in the winsper-swing’s breeze? For this freedom and joy I rarely feel.