dreams and silhouettes

It is, perhaps, possible to imagine a place in which dreams and silhouettes lie hidden beyond the boundaries of silence, beyond distance and pain; a place in which they lie waiting to be discovered with trepidation and warmth.

Maybe it is easy to believe that, no matter how defeated they may feel inside, the essence of that which once made them smile with joy still remains inside, untouched, clean, virgin. When they rest in the distance, these dreams, when they are surrounded by nothingness and in silence they are filled with sadness.

The other night I dreamt of a fortress which sat on the middle of an island, which in turn was in the middle of a lake. The fortress was not what caught my attention, nor was the lake or the blood-red sunset which painted the sky with lively colors. What caught my attention was the detail with which I remembered everything that surrounded me. The texture of the grass beneath my naked feet, the shadows which hid the colors from those far-away walls, the countless golden boughs which concealed the sun and its passion.

I have to accept that I seldom have such lucid dreams, in fact I often have to remind myself, when I wake up in the mornings, that I have been dreaming about something –or about someone, that I can’t easily remember, but that I can’t forget either.

In these dreams, like the ones I often have, what matters most are the characters and the story they tell, not so much the scenery which surrounds them; nevertheless, when you wake up you feel a sort of emptiness inside which is very peculiar, since you know and understand that all of that which you thought you were living was in fact nothing more than a dream. Now, this giant dream that I’m telling you about was completely different from all others. I can tell you with a fair degree of certainty that I can’t recall seeing anyone else in that place, and I don’t think anything particularly interesting happened.

No… I was just watching myself watching the space that surrounded me, captivated by the endless canvas of textures, sounds and colors. The impression was so real and clear, that now I’m not sure if I’m writing this to you from within my dream or not.

Frank 14:08

sometimes i almost dream

Sometimes I almost dream.

A dream itself not so complete,
but scattered remains that light the way ahead.
In empty hollow places,
where blustery winds in rage once met.

One time I almost died.

And in that night a prayer went up so high, so eager…
that life itself let in by death,
was shown to me without contempt.

Sometimes I can almost walk.

And just like you, I too have spent my life in the traveler’s way.
In roads not filled with dreams,
but felt with tears and blood that form the road ahead.

Smile again once more per chance I will,
that dreams themselves will come again.
And in that night I will remain, at last, complete.

Sometimes I almost dream.

Frank 16.41
(based on c. carter’s memento mori)

unavoidably deranged

Looking back, I can’t remember the moment when reality stopped working for me, in a way it seems like it never really did work.

All that I remember from my days of quiet isolation is a collection of thoughts that now seem to transcend into the ether, feelings that once ruled my days with great expectation now seem strange and unfamiliar to me. This is not my life you are seeing. This is someone else’s dismembered reality, replete with disturbing moments of sorrow and pain. Don’t misunderstand me, I am not a philosopher in any way, on the contrary, I am a man who is deeply attached to images and sounds.

For a long time now I’ve been wondering which way to go next. Wondering how to go on when I feel there is little alive inside of me. When the putrid remains of my once callow life remain but a shadow of distant days. Convinced that everything I feel and know and do is cold and dark and wrong. My ability to weave stories of expanding beauty, filled with everlasting moments of delight has been diminished. Diminished simply because the light which once lived inside my heart has almost been entirely extinguished. My hands no longer feel alive or eager, now they mostly just feel cold and tired.

And I can’t help to wonder what is the best way to pour out my heart on paper like I used to do so easily, and so readily. How can I write effortlessly, willingly and completely? Write as if blood itself was pouring down my arms, as if blood was the only ink that I had left in me, the only ink I would ever need.

The hardest part about writing is finding a purpose. It is so easy to jolt down words and make up sentences that seem to have a function, but it’s an entirely different thing to write something with meaning. Something that rings true, something that feels alive inside.

Sometimes I think that I have lost that.

Frank 9:33

reflections

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, a state of affairs that is somewhat uncommon for me I realize, but I guess in many ways these are not ordinary days.

Whenever you have something important to say, be it a story or an idea, it becomes such a trivial task to put it down in paper, seamlessly writing words until you either run out of paper or ideas. There is no need to force yourself to do it because words themselves pour out of your hands. This happens when you feel passionate about something, be it life, an image or even a memory. It is then that you have the ability to easily explain how you feel inside, to transmit the idea that occupies your mind at that moment and let someone else take it home; which is, incidentally, when words cease to be yours, when someone else adopts them and in turn uses them explain their very own set of problems and desires.

But getting there is not easy, and I mean that in the most practical sense of the word. Easy as in getting your thoughts in order, connecting A to B and then to C. Sure, it doesn’t always work like that, but the trick behind all this is that as long as you are completely aware of your existence, of the place you occupy in life, everything else becomes as easy as reading a book.

Or so they say.

Being daring in the face of adversity requires not only strength, but also complete awareness of your shortcomings and your weaknesses; this is crucial, only then can you expect to be able to face your fears and your demons, to be able to conquer them and leave the arena with a big, broad smile on your face knowing you did a good job at the end of a day’s work.

But looking back upon your life is a tricky thing. It’s tricky because you’re bound to see things subjectively. You’re bound to ask yourself a myriad of questions too: what went wrong, what went good, you’ll wonder how things would be different if you had taken the other road instead. Sometimes however, if you try hard enough, you can manage to see the whole picture, so to speak, and see things objectively and appraise your life, or at least a portion of it, with all its hits and misses.

It is not without trepidation that I write these words however, I am well aware of how immersed I am in my own feelings and emotions, in my shortcomings and my doubts. I feel however as if time itself had given me the opportunity right now to look back and reflect, if only for a moment, on all the things I’ve been through these past few years. And believe me, since I know just how risky and uncertain my relationship with time is, I’m not about to decline such an offer. I want to carve these words inside my heart before I let them go for good so that they will always be there should I need them.

Frank 10:40