February 24, 2013 § 3 Comments
The Truth is Out There?
There was once a man who decided, in order to give structure and purpose to his life, that he would try to find himself. To this end he devoted the whole of his available time and energy. He read many books, attended courses and seminars of all kinds and traveled many miles to sit at the feet of great teachers and learned men. Eventually he grew old and died and ascended to heaven. Like every new arrival, he was called for an audience with God, who inquired of him whether he had been successful in his quest.
“Not really,” replied the man ruefully.
“Well,” said God, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you another shot. This time, see if you can work out who’s doing the looking.”
Now, Ben is a very dear friend i know from WordPress. His words amaze me, and he likes amazing me that way, quite often. One of the few people i am blessed to meet. Do follow his blog here.
February 5, 2013 § 8 Comments
Is that she
She married chaos
when she was eight.
January 25, 2013 § 61 Comments
there’s a reason why i don’t read so many blogs anymore.
no really, i’d like to.
but there’s nothing out there for me.
there is an inherent lack of emotion.
no feeling. no love.
it’s usually some cribby stuff about some stuff that some people care about.
i don’t care about politics or your favourite song.
i care about yourself.
tell me about you. what’s on your mind?
you don’t need to write about topics. fuck em. you, are everything.
sit down and tell me about your thoughts. not your fucking day.
everyone lives the same day, yours isn’t any more significant than mine.
what’s special is your interpretation.
maybe you don’t feel as happy as you normally do? is it?
that’s what i care about.
create the illusion of love and i’d read you.
that’s what real writing is. how you make me feel.
make me feel special.
you can only do that by being personal and offering me something that i don’t have.
not knowledge or insight, i have a brain.
your experience. i want it.
January 20, 2013 § 21 Comments
I slit my wrist, tear out my nail and burn the lamp.
I melt my flesh, swallow my tears and turn em into words.
I pierce my soul, dip in my finger and write.
The winds blow out the lamp.
The tears murder the words.
The soul dissolves.
But, i am indestructible.
Am i not the one who is free?
December 5, 2012 § 12 Comments
Worthy of love and admiration were these people in their blind loyalty, their blind strength and tenacity. They lacked nothing; there was nothing the knowledgeable one, the thinker, had to put above them except for one little thing, a tiny, small thing: the consciousness, the conscious thought of the oneness of all life.
And Siddhartha even doubted in many an hour, whether this knowledge, this thought was to be valued thus highly, whether it might not also perhaps be a childish idea of the thinking people, of the thinking and childlike people. In all other respects, the worldly people were of equal rank to the writer men, were often far superior to them; just as animals too can, after all, in some moments, seem to be superior to humans in their tough, unrelenting performance of what is necessary.
Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha.