Verces

***

I'd love to show my grace to the widest world, and get on a kind of top, but I just die everyday. Even this art does not belong to me, but to my life or fate. On the wider perspective, all those voices I listened to and thought about. It is somehow a matter of rationalization - for as I recognize myself as a dust, and realize, that perhaps even there is no such thing as me, in a sophisticated view. There is the nature, the ever-plenty abundance, in any terms you would use to recognize it, so many lines crossing in this common point I call me. You may say, that my physionomy, and even the most mine part, as face, is somehow designed by powers of the outer, if there is still a difference between the innear and the outer, through the communion of sences, care, and breath. So then I am a microcosm - but it is much too great philosophy for me. I'd love to engage in a kind of adventure, so I could prove myself that I exist. I'd love to ride ahead a company through the wilderness, with the finest blade in my hand, but all I can do, is living in dreams. And also, as I remember my adventures, they never gave even a brick to the building of my self esteem. As a youngster, I tried to do as many fool things as it was possible. Perhaps there was even some legend. Perhaps even things we do are to prove our own existence. Well, from some point of view, I am not sure if I ever was pleased by anything. I always were in pursuit for something, that in the time used to seem to be the highier than that before. Once I thought, that it is something highier to suffer with those who lay on the ground of the world, so I did.

*** Monday

There comes something numb as I ask myself few things. Hard to say what is the game of my mind and what is for real. I took many things from world around. Theoretically, I've been many. I really thought that I am. For real - I'm just a fantast. I would like to find a mirror in this quest for truth. Sometimes I feel pity, as I cannot be honest, and I can't, for I don't know. I'd beg someone for forgiveness as I don't know what I am. Once I thought the world is dark, and I followed some instructions how to make it a bit better. Then I re/alised that darkness was in my eye. Although the mind looks to be designed as the magic lattern. All I did until now is to see, that for a long time I was in a deep darkness. I imagined I could become a warrior or a philantrope. Now I just see, that nobody needs it. It is humorous for some point of view. And the lies I used to live in are a fine matter for fiction. Perhaps I should not be so serious about it.

*** Wednesday

Perhaps art is about transformation of facts into poetry, and anyone that doesn't will to disapear immeaditly may be an artist. There is a kind of resentment towards things we don't know what to do with, things that doesn't fit well into the actual mosaic in the mind's eye. Perhaps a kind of maturity means something as being able not to fall in desperation in the case of stuff that doesn't sound well. It is a kind of endangerement of a dream, though the dreams are like the wind, they come and go without a reason. Perhaps everything may become a part of a dream. We would like to be sure about them - if someone told us, that precisely is the sense. But then comes some antithesis, and it looks as it is just wasteing of time. What is not, anyhow? What is the base or the top of the world? People seem to live in their dreams, this or that way, perhaps the affair is about they take it for serious. It is hard to find oneself in this seriousness, as you could neglect just everything. Everything may be fine as you look at it from a distance, athough from the inside it is a tragedy. Perhaps art of living is to see something high in the circumstances you are inside, or at least imagine, that there is a perspective, that actually says "yes" to all that happens. Although, as you spend some time riding on the wind, it looks that nothing is enough. Then, there is just an imagination and the real. You'd love to become the pure imagination, somehow you fall.