it was a single room. matte grey. no furniture except the tatami mat on the floor and a few books opened face down. food was cooked on a collapsible propane stove folded in the corner. it was hardly used, mainly raw vegetables were consumed. he managed the grocery shop on the bottom floor of the building, she worked at the public library on the other side of the city. everyday she’d bring home new books that they’d skim through, any worth reading would be saved until they needed returning, the others would be taken back the next day. there was a giant chalkboard painted on one of the walls. sometimes they didn’t feel like speaking so they’d doodle each other messages. they both erased the thought of anyone else ever existing from their mind. occasionally a long lost friend would send a letter; an invitation to a wedding, a death in the family, a plea for some advice. guests were always welcome - it’s only that most of them found the place deplorable. “where do you guys do dishes?” “where are your clothes?” “you don’t have a television?” “how do you cook food?”

"why don’t you just leave?"

on stormy nights they’d both perch up on the windowsill and count the rain drops or watch the droplets scurry across the glass. sometimes he’d come home with lots of cardboard boxes and they’d call out of work the next day and just build - cities, bridges, planes, houses, trees, domes, everything!

some days the only thing that’d be said was “I will certainly miss you when you’re gone.”

sisyphus’ stone was probably more like a grain of sand. it’s like a whole day passes and all that seems to have actually happened is a few words spoken, a few doors opened, and a couple objects moved from here to there then back again.

My black nighted empress
Dancing around undressed in the corner of my eye
Whispering lovely melodies and I’m not quite sure why
She’s shrouded in metaphor
She couldn’t really exist
For if she were real, my yearning would subsist

Context and interpretation and inter subjectivity and the role of imagination in constructing some semblance of a coherent world - these things need to be talked about more

I’m finally free. If i so desired I could pack my bag and just start walking, I could drop school, I could go do drugs, I could go visit friends.

What do I do though? Lay in bed by my open window and read. It’s so calm I don’t want to do anything else. I hardly want to read.

humansofnewyork:

"When my children are settled, I am going to retire and devote more time to my meditation. Every time you meditate, you get a little further from the world. You become more and more like the lotus, which grows in the water, but never touches the water.""So what’s the benefit of withdrawing from the world?""Meditation is like a glass of juice. I can describe the glass of juice to you. But you’re not going to know the glass of juice until you taste it."
(Jammu, India)

Behind solid sheets of steel like glass the hours seem to
drift and pass.
From then to now, an eternity,
That haphazardly returns to me
in a single burst of memorial light.
Colored by vibrations,
Imbued with ineffable sensations,
These jewels of timeless splendor
Only with time become ever more difficult to remember.

"I had never before thought of how awful the relationship must be between the musician and his instrument. He has to fill it, this instrument, with the breath of life, his own."

Epinephrine, always stressin, ignoring all the shit I should be addressin, I pushed the envelope, got stamped out, failed to deliver, now I’m drownin in the river

Your beauty lies
In butterflies
That torment my every breath
And every thought of your gracious smile
Renders me insecure
Although you lack most sympathy
And are rather cruel -you dwell in the house of misery- you have reduced me to a fool

A fool I’ll be for all to see
If you’d just call my name
But not a sound, a whimper, a breath
Do I hear to quell the blaze within my breast

"For Rumi, poetry is what he does in the meantime, a song-and-dance until the greater reality he loves arrives; a melting tear-gift eye-piece to look through, while it and the scene and the eye dissolve."

I fear looking into your eyes for I might never see another thing again
The corner of your smile enfolding me
The strands of your hair unfurling me
The rhythm of your heart entrancing me
The peak of your shout impaling me
The contour of your speech lulling me
The grace of your movement unbalancing me
The edge of your wit dissecting me
The torrent of you anger enslaving me
The resolve of your will supporting me
The weight of your sighs collapsing me
The sight of your tears drowning me
I fear looking into your eyes

For all these things they do comprise
And I’d never see an existent thing again

eons and eons and eras in error. “I” a convenient reminder of this being which I so love. “I” the creator of worlds; what have I done?

All the little anemic period girls need a home. And the drunken street drunks. And the dead cats in trash cans, and the couches in dumpsters and the shoes in Kentuckies. And we need the validation that someone other then ourselves bears witness. Because all these memory bits seem to lose all significance when swallowed up in the void of subjectivity.

It’s a craze it’s a dream it’s enormous it fits in your eye it’s endless it’s vapid and vacant and bland and immersive and responsive it flutters and flourishes and evolves and expands and breathes. It’s in and of and out. It speaks monolithically and is serene and subversive. It bewilders and attacks and embraces. It swarms into an enveloping ether gently pulling you into a lull. It’s a place and an idea and a state of being. Recursive and blinding. It’s pain embodied in extra-personal objects fed back into color. It converts and reverts. It’s just texture misaligned. It’s light and light and light and light. Composed of air and sand and words and memories scotch taped together. It’s not.