The wrongness of Kundera's philosophy!

The time has come

To migrate from this place to another

From the place of existing to the place of being

This lightness of being

To give away the sweetness of the juice of that fruit,

Growing on top of that tree at the corner of that hill

By the river in the field of wheat,

And go backwards to the sound and the noise

To the fury of the city

To the pollution and the collisions of the traffic

And tall dark haired skinny girls

In their fancy boots

To makes a routine out of the unbearable

So that it’s no more…

Elegy (Persistent Momentary Lapse of Things)

 

Can’t you see baby,

That it’s not working?

All the sincerity,

All this time,

And you break my heart,

At least once every night…

 

Don’t you feel it baby?

That it’s not there?

Even though I look in your erratically colored eyes,

And see nothing but your want,

with all of your repulsion,

…

 

Can u feel me seeing it baby?

That it’s not us we’re chasing?

That it’s the way things are,

In this fucking choreography of attitudes,

And the persistent momentary lapse among them

 

It tears my heart,

At least once every night…

Perfect Model

I wish life was merely the embodiment of the intersection of pretty moments with absolutely no interceptions in between.
You’re in the middle of one snapshot of it, and not knowing what happened, right in the middle of the next.
That way I would do the rightest thing right now and wouldn’t worry about the rest.
No time to regret it if I was wrong.

a perfect model…

Of the nature of the wind

coming from the realm of the wind,
and the people of breeze,
of no memory and no future,
until death makes us stop and gets us to know any peace.
to know us, is to feel a sting,
of being encircled by, and unable to capture.
Cursed us in the cold winter morning,
loved us in the late spring.

The curse

Born within a snake skin

Lured by its reflection

Mirrored through the zombie-d eyes

Antagonizing imperfection

Coordinated by a blow

ISOMORPH

 

It’s a bubble, hollow and warm. You crawl in it, walk in it, naked or not, when you’re a small child.

It’s your home, it’s your world, you’re always in it, lucid, round and light, no matter where or what.

if you want to grow, the means is a touch, and when you want it smaller, it shrinks down to your size.

No more a kid now, you’ve blown your bubble larger, making a balloon of it, bouncing up and down the ground.

exuberant and alive, living in this balloon was, surfing the earth and the skies, landing on others and other’s as is falling in love.

It’s so fun you keep touching it, making it so large, like the world itself: bouncy and round, vast and full of charm.

to the time it’s too large, you cannot see it. Not seeing it, you don’t touch it, you don’t think you want, you don’t even try.

You don’t try, and you don’t want to try. Don’t want to try and you forget. you forget and you die.

class-ified ambition

 

If I had the sun
I would charge you all none
for the warmth,

my cold mind wouldn’t have to stray
while my numb hands do the routine
in a cold winter’s night