you know , all your philosophy , aspirations, happiness and laughter .
Lazy weekend mornings drinking hazelnut coffee head sticking into the blue hue of the sky . All the fondling , lust , humping under sheets , this inexplicable desire that drives half of us to the other half and drives all of us crazy .
All of that and more , much more , your false ambition , the narration of your life , your petty career you are proud of , little versions of you babbling in your ear grounded on your knee looking at you with trusting eyes , fully into you , fully believing in you like you are a GOD , that is for a few years till you become the worst person in the world. oh but you are not a God , behind that semi stable face you are in heart and soul at the edge of a ravine , you are as frail and weak as the wing of a mosquito .
But that does not end there , you do find some sweetness , some little taste of happiness as witnessed in the content smirk of really old people. so you carry along folding your days , arranging your weeks and months into piles , some days a little more disorganized that usual .... from your plateau of relative comfort , licking your share of honey you sometimes look around , search for those who share what you are ... even try to imagine what THEY are , let them into the vacancy within your heart ... Those other poor broken people , those meteorites that shattered and burnt out early. From within the inexplicable infinity of yourself you are indeed able to circumvent that chasm and pour yourself into those heaps of flesh left behind .... that is empathy , it is in your blood , your genes , and only because of fear is it stifled in many a heart.
The late Bill Hicks , one of the jesters of this realm was ever so right when he said there are only two choices : Love or Fear .... not love and "hate". But that is a tangent for another Universe , another state of "to be" , which I am only passing by right now , I am more fixated right now into the quivering heart of the beast , rather than its vocalizations.
That silent heart does quiver , its waves do splash and reflect on the mute matter of the canvas , each new reflection a new heart that startles itself into being , lifts it eyes to the heavens , smiles a little smile before staggering weary eyed into sleepiness.
But that does not sum you up , not yet , not by a long shot . The canvass , the paint ,the waves of colour , that is not the masterpiece. The masterpiece is the "meaning" within it. That this more real than the meat on your bones. You recognize that every so called work of Art and Science pursued by our fellow wizards , fumblers , sharp eyed torrents of bursting curiosity, those infants that salivate over the ever shiny pebbles within the immortal ocean front springing from Newtons dreams. Yes , you do recognize that all those are just rope carrying arrows bridging this your heart to that unreachable meaning ... mind you the arrows do disappear into the impossible , but they still GET there , oh you are so sure .
But still , that is still not you . And now , for the greatest leap of all . You know , moving about on the surface of a sphere , your waterless gulls nurturing the yellow custard behind those painted portals into some of your being. When that shiny metallic thing splatters that yellow custard thing into her pink suit, remember that ? that did not faze you . That is even more not you than all of the above . That is but a scratch into your totality.
That is still , not you , but please , stop here , looking for you is totally fruitless... just be you . No just be . No : just. No ..... N
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