luni, 11 august 2014
World War- War Within and Brainhunt
... I thought that morning had something better to bring however it was not so. I went out to the window and gazed at the sky. It was full of fire and gunshots could be seen from a distance. I had to breathe once again the air and the smoke of war touching my unwashed skin dirty with blood and the filth of too much killing. I felt once more the pain of my bleeding body and turned away from the sight. The clock struck six AM and I went to catch up with the little drop of watter that had to wash my face and dry two more of the tears I shared at night with my prayerbook. The man next to me opened his eyes. He could not stand up and could not speak because of the pain of gunshots. As I was staring in the broken looking glass I found my head growing up a daze and I felt my eyes heavy. So I grabbed hold of my gun and controling my feet to stand on solid ground I started counting from one to ten in German to keep my mind concentrated with the warlanguage I was studying. Apparently it didn't help at all . I must have fallen to the ground and the broken mirror was now floating over my head. But it became more than just a looking glass, it was like an artefact screen projecting a gathering of stars. The stars somehow in my mind were all representative figures of numbers which formed in some kodes the symbol of Nazzi Party of World War II. The figures then started twisting and turning and disolved into darkness. When I woke up all that I could see was a darkened nightsky and in my pocket the piece of mirror in which I was gazing before breakfast. I stood up in the middle of a deserted battlefield. A man came towards me and struck me hard. I punched and hit and stabbed him with my knife but it looked as if he wasn\t bleeding at all. He grabbed hold of my mirror then directed it to my face. I felt a soft touch on my forhead and something being pulled out. Then as they say I was left without memories or identity so I chose to project my soul on the grass filled with warblood and let my body rest next to all the others. I am now a soul in search of the mirror for I am left without logical or rational thought and I will now look for it all over where I may find it. Death withoug logic is a very subjectively chosen wrong deed and so I have to make the right of it some day....
joi, 7 august 2014
An Artist Being Watched
.... And it is true, the truth I can see from a distant window....
He was holding his eyes up to the sky , asking the gods for a final answer... his eyes were grey, so grey that wintery snow in iced tears transpired from a wonderful serenity of told and retold memory stories tangled all together like a web of truth covering a soul of mistery. As night struck the hours of cold he started asking up the questions of the essence of life and started wondering if here were any being on the planet answering his deeds, fulfilling his thinking amount and empathising with his certain blissful harmony. In his lonelyest corner he sold his soul and Art in the form of a goddess dressed in black took it for granted. He then began to dive in a mistery from the cup of stollen nectar from which the reincarnated child drinks day by day and deprives the world of yet another and yet another deadly secret. The corner was now painted in hot colours that burned the one without a soul and he chose to press his back and his iced beloved eyes to the window at night so that the stars that still talked to him would provide an answer about fundamental destiny. Since he was the creator of a hidden conspiracy that had all of the known and unknown deep deep within a goldmine he also turned the sun up and down in the ellementary of nothing with each circular majestic gaze of his mirrorlike stare. Dust of time covered him and his books each and every star falling upon him with an answer at dawn taking over one more life, one more child and another son who paid tributary work to the man with no soul gave up another rythmic pass of a heart and restrain from feeling love chosing the feeling of supreme knowing a peace of everything in an evolutionary state.
It was all only a recovered dream for when I woke up at night , me the observer could still see him there as silent and noble as a painted statue neeting and kindly telling tales about life and what there was beyond , his voice as soft as silk and his wisper as melodic as a tune taking one far far away in a place never to return from again.....
He was holding his eyes up to the sky , asking the gods for a final answer... his eyes were grey, so grey that wintery snow in iced tears transpired from a wonderful serenity of told and retold memory stories tangled all together like a web of truth covering a soul of mistery. As night struck the hours of cold he started asking up the questions of the essence of life and started wondering if here were any being on the planet answering his deeds, fulfilling his thinking amount and empathising with his certain blissful harmony. In his lonelyest corner he sold his soul and Art in the form of a goddess dressed in black took it for granted. He then began to dive in a mistery from the cup of stollen nectar from which the reincarnated child drinks day by day and deprives the world of yet another and yet another deadly secret. The corner was now painted in hot colours that burned the one without a soul and he chose to press his back and his iced beloved eyes to the window at night so that the stars that still talked to him would provide an answer about fundamental destiny. Since he was the creator of a hidden conspiracy that had all of the known and unknown deep deep within a goldmine he also turned the sun up and down in the ellementary of nothing with each circular majestic gaze of his mirrorlike stare. Dust of time covered him and his books each and every star falling upon him with an answer at dawn taking over one more life, one more child and another son who paid tributary work to the man with no soul gave up another rythmic pass of a heart and restrain from feeling love chosing the feeling of supreme knowing a peace of everything in an evolutionary state.
It was all only a recovered dream for when I woke up at night , me the observer could still see him there as silent and noble as a painted statue neeting and kindly telling tales about life and what there was beyond , his voice as soft as silk and his wisper as melodic as a tune taking one far far away in a place never to return from again.....
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