remembering spain

Ten years ago, give or take a few days, I was sitting on a beach in the south of Spain, with a small notebook in one hand and a black pen in the other, scribbling words in paper.

It was about six o’clock in the afternoon of the last day of the year and I was watching the sun go down. It was an amazing sight to behold, the air was sweet and warm, I was feeling lazy and intoxicated by the sights and sounds around me: people walking leisurely down the boulevard, young beautiful things eyeing back, smiling at me in delight. The peace and beauty I felt in me drove me to write about that moment, to put into words what my body and my mind were experiencing then.

I miss that day so much.

There’s a simplicity that comes with life. Knowing that there are no excuses when it comes to understanding it, that you have no time to waste, even if you feel like you have to start all over again. I like that. Sometimes.

I like feeling a sense of peace inside when everything around me overshadows my entire body.

Still, all the inconsistencies and the days of relentless waiting can only amount to a brief moment in the light of my recently discovered self. But the truth behind these words can only be explained by the utter realization that, after all is said and done, we are beings of light and love. Estranged souls that feel deeply and never cease to weep. Even now, as I try hopelessly to hurry my hands across the keyboard with all these words I have inside, an implacable sense of peace falls upon me and clears my mind of all thought.

The joy of believing in yourself is as big as the pain of not feeling anything at all. Remember this always.

Frank 16:22

words and dreams…

A word is not unlike a dream, in the sense that you can find in both a very peculiar stance where sensibility and madness go hand in hand. But any attempt, by man or woman, to tread new roads to and from such ethereal places is often futile, simply because the journey to such underminded places is often one of tortuous self-discovery.

But to find a word buried deep within a dream, painfully estatic, forever marred by the memory of those living in the light, is not a chance encounter by itself. Per chance it died in an arrogant self-reliance an age ago, crying in the night as it slowly disappeared when there was nothing but a faint memory to remember it ever existed. Perhaps, just like me, it is now looking for a way out.

I am always absorbed by such encounters, slowly moving forward in a moment’s passing. It’s the coming of the night what keeps me so occupied, the moment when I feel the obligation and necessity to tell the dreams I have inside, not because they are my own to give, but because I feel them so completely, so intimately that not doing so would mean the end of my own erratic existance.

This is an oversimplification, and I know it. It would be impossible for me to painfully re-enact every single scene and to write down each and every word that was said. But that’s where sensibility comes in, when you can find your way around the sea of doubt that clogs the mind at the hour of the wolf.

There is something so simple and so beautiful about waking up at night.

Frank 10:24