Going through the sin

I've learnt what doing sacrifices means, yet I cannot remember if I have ever done a single one. Learning how to do something or the notion of it is not similar to doing it.

A valuable discovery doesn't exist without any random casualties to sustain it. That is, when we speak of the hard work and the wishes and dreams which are slaughtered every day in order to let the other ones, more important, more precious to us, to exist. Oh, it feels like dying under the innocent smile of the blazin sun. It fels like cutting one of your members and throwing them to the vultures.

And if so, how come these wounds never heal? Why isn't meditation enough sometimes? do we, as simple mortals, ask for much?

Life is continually submersing us into chambers of filth. Their thresholds are covered in moonlit dust. They relinquish our specters using simple mirrages. Yet at times, these mirrages are being consumed, usin this as an arm against us.

What if life is meant to be a continuous question/answer? Life actually is the answer to itself....We just need to live in order to heal and we have to live in order to be wounded and afterwards heal again.... Maybe.... we're simply slidng throught this eternal sin called the supreme forgivenessss. L>I>F>E( Lie if fear errects).

Simplu...

Azi, citind unul dintre blogurile de suflet pentru mine, am realizat ca am invatat multe lucruri de la persoana iubita. Am invatat intai ce inseamna sa tii si sa iubesti pe cineva( desi inca mai am mult de invatat), apoi am inteles ca am invatat cum sa apreciez lucrurile marunte si sa apreciez lucrurile in general si ca viata, in tot ceea ce o compune, merita inteleasa si apreciata. In cele din urma, lucrul cel mai drag mie, este ca am invatat sa iubesc ploaia, ca este singurul si cel mai de pret lucru pe care il avem in comun si ca asemeni curgerii ei pe geam, mai sunt inca foarte multe lucruri de inteles, de invatat si de iubit de la ea care vor fi un izvor nesecat.... Pentru asta, iubita mea, te iubesc...
Oh, atatea dde spus si insuficiente cuvinte ca sa o fac:(

Ode to the citadel...(Letter II)

OH, MY FRIEND,

It is imperious in its height. Its towers are the guardians of this forgotten land. It's its purity and grandeur that makes it radiant. Its smoky walls seem to evaporate with every gasp I take. The darkened sky behind it deepens the halo which engulfs with a volatile, dusk. Was that the face of a dying being? The cracks in its walls seem to be shedding blood. Pearly blood... It feeds the soil it rests on, and the soil feeds it... Monstrous, monstrous....
The mesmerising construction has no doors, no gates, no windows.... It is a horrifying prison. The one who built it must have been trapped inside it. I believe I can hear him or her shouting from the guts of the living item. The wind whispers desperately into my ears, as if he's asking for me to assit the poor tormented soul.
I do wonder now: was this a regal challenge for a Master builder to seil inside it his most precious treasure? And if so, what if he didn't have any priceless belongings and he didn't have anything to seige inside it? This seems like the absolute punishment for a human. To be obliged to build something unique, which is made to emprison something and to proove itself worthless and lacking utillity...
I drear this sort of cages, this continuous and sinuous labirynth that never stops from disintegrating you and....
I can't go any further... I cannot do such utterance...
Until we meet again my friend,
The Imp

Oscilation

Up it goes and down it comes....

HUH! Time to go, it's time, what's the time?... It has become a monstrous fight against windmills. How much can I take? It never stops, it never speaks, it never does anything useful. It flows, it floods, it terrifies, it is itself. It eats your food, it drinks you fluids, it... leaves you dim.
I've had enough trying to maintain the course with it. In real life, it's motagne-russe combined with a mary-go-round. It halts suddenly and it starts at lightspeed. It is the self-imposed boundary between the real world and our own universes. I never slows down in reality, but it becomes pietrified in everyone's universe. It doesn't let you confuse ideas with palpable objects... It was born before there was light and it was the mother and the father of life, the ultimate sirendipity, and all that has come with it.
On the other hand, my notion of time has never been more blended like now. Eventhough it dellusionates me with a pure LANDSCAPE OF THE BOTTOM OF MY SOUL, I just know the mist and dirt on it. It makes me feel hollow inside and it suffocates my sensitivity and ability to see the beauty of everything. But at times, the dirt engraves it. Now it is one of those moments. And I am a tempst.
Can anybody stop us?...

Letter( A response to a POST)

MY DEAREST FRIEND,

Disregarding, disobbeying, destroying... Today everything rhymes with 'dis' or at least with the begining of everything. I wonder, how can someone whose main purpose is to thrive on his skills( if there are such inner capacities) be so rude and careless about the sorroundings of him? Maybe it is intended to be so as there is an opposite to myself. IT'S THE BEGINING OF THE END FOR ME AND MY CRAVINGS.
Disregarding... nature and all its contents. Disobbeying my benefactors, those who foster me and care for my well-going on this world, destroying myself by simply devouring myself with mental disections... Doing all of these for what? I'd dare say it is because life seems endlessly paused on a single note. Time has gone from a hectic waterflow to a serene and dreadfully silent lake. I cannot guarantee for the safety of all, because of the beast purged forever by my inner egos.
What am I or what are you looking for? Is it ourselves or just nothingness? Is it a purpose? Is it answers?
Thoughts come and thoughts go. Trap them quick or they shall slip through your fingers like water, like time. If we were to write all what we are thinking of, there would not be enough methods to store them and not enough time to release them. Maybe it is for the best like this. I may not know the whole power of words, but once you're filled with questions that barely have an answer, you stay a solitary imp forever. An imp who wonders through them with and without the cure or the disease...
Maybe I'll write to you 'tomorrow',
An Imp