Always in the work process, but this is what is now:
I live in the house with no roof; no windows, the walls sit leaning against nature. It is not even a house. There are no birds, not even a mosquito comes by. I know a spot when I stare in the middle of the night, the entire Milky Way dances to the swish of the wind playing a melody only I know.
So if you hear me over the deafening roar of your life in its existence, on this evening when the moon in the shadow bows behind the unsettled serenity of the meadow, spare me a thought.
Spoken words, alone, dissipate and are forgotten in the sand of time. Written words record and serve us as a pledge in this heedless life, they freeze a frame, a chapter in our book of life. It is this exclusive snapshot that I would like to vouch and leave my footprints in the sand of time.
Privileged was I that life unexpectedly undertook me through its winding mysteries pointing hastily to the indiscreet entrance of its secrecy. A glimpse I have witnessed, but to withstand the blow of the unknown, I lost myself. And in losing myself, the path I stumbled on leads to lead, except leads nowhere but beyond the current that runs to run. When the sun sets behind the mountain in which I sojourn, and the fog unfolds its misty shadows upon my eyes, may my heart come to rest in my own sovereign passed the current.
The wind blows, always, and it always vanishes trapped lonesome in the high plateaus where on the tallest tree, on the highest mountain only the deaf man hears its tune echoing, for no man cares for a dying song. He who hears the sound of silence hears the call of the unknown, a serene melody from the deep side of infinity. Man must be deaf to the sound of the world and blind to its illusion to attain the truth.
So long now as I board this vessel taking me far away from here, back to the core where my journey began, where the sun is vivid and colorless. Grim is the path to the point of no return, but if you have walked many years through this cycle of madness we call life: the alternative is not an option.
The garden you want to reach lies through the reverie of this very wreckage, a nightmare trapped in the delusion of the self.
If you decide to wake up, ahead is the sand of time where time does not time itself, and where the sand stands still in the stillness of eternity.
If you choose to be asleep, the aloneness of eternity will render your being lifeless in your own loneliness of your illusion.
A garden, there never was but a fantasy of your self-reflection.
“The truth that speaks is not out there
The answer is in you,
The endeavor is to possess the energy to reach that realization
With no purpose, no routine
Take the time to be free
Being in the know
That everything is possible”
So is written on the wall leading to my house that is not.
In your turn, may you understand that truth.
Listen to the wind howling from the hilltops, a cry only I know. The wind is blowing, I am ready.
