I bury myself. I… bury myself. I bury myself in a landscape. A landscape of dreams. I bury myself in a landscape of dreams. Escaping the too real. Escaping the too real reality, I bury myself in a landscape of dreams. I build the walls. I think, and I build. I think, I build. My thinking is my building. My thoughts are my buildings. I build the thoughts as I think them. A landscape of dreams, built on thoughts alone. A wall looking like nothing and everything. A wall translucent and impenetrable. Escaping the too real reality, I bury myself in a landscape of dreams, behind the walls my thoughts erected, I look out on a world that can’t reach me. I sit in silence, staring, bewildered at the too real outside, counting humans as I count sheep, but unable to sleep, unable to dream inside a dream. Layers on layers of walls form. Layers on end. There are no bricks. No ground to shake underneath. I sit in silence, staring, bewildered, building on with every thought. Higher, stronger. Escaping the too real. Inventing games, records. New high score. New record of height. As when I was a child, growing higher, stronger, measured on the wall. New record. New high score. New record of height. Getting close to the wall. Escaping the too real, falling into the wall. Making new landscapes in-between the walls. Burying myself in a landscape of dreams. No people. Dreams. No people. Walls. No people. Thoughts. No people. Escaping the too real. Turning walls into friends. Friends protect, I know. Friends keep the too real away. Friends translucent and impenetrable. Friends in need. Friends in need, escaping the too real in landscapes of dreams. In landscapes of dreams. Friends escaping. Behind walls, translucent and impenetrable. Friends escaping to landscapes of dreams. Friends escaping the too real.
You tell me you’ve seen it all,
“Haven’t you seen it all?”
you ask me,
“Haven’t you seen it all dissolve?”
“Seen the stars of the night sky
burning up before your eyes,
reveal their flickering lights
as pure disguise?”
“Seen snow melt back in to rain
landing in puddles on the dirt,
understood how every new terrain
transforms into hurt?”
I always thought we were birds
high above the lands,
And you tell me I’m right to dream,
but wrong to wish wings instead of hands
That feathery features is a
but it’ll tear our skin apart
if we keep fighting our reality
‘Cause even the quickest kiss
might lead to fatality,
and not even broken hearts
escape the laws of mortality
“We come in peace,
and we leave in pieces,
like a fold-up sheet of paper,
cut along the creases.”
Patience and boredom are acts forgotten
They will be antiquated, like a typewriter in a museum
In dimmed lights, in a fashionably retro room
We will see mannequins lying on their beds
Strangely phone-less, hands down their sides
Our eyes mirroring theirs, yawns already forming
As we follow the stare up into the ceiling
It’s all a quest. It’s different paths; different mindsets getting you there. But it’s all a quest. It’s all questions asked or unasked, active or potential, and the hunt for answers, tracing their shadowy footprints through the dark, leaf-filled ground of the forests. It’s a life-long purpose, searching for identity in a world without, or a sudden hunch on a clear day, tumbling down from the sky to send your heart beating with wonder, to send your legs beating with wander, crisscrossing the infinite map of thoughts left behind and thoughts waving in front of you, always the naïve hope that this time we’ll make sense of it all, always realising, but never accepting, that the only sense we’re offered is the sense we make ourselves. Call it relativistic, call it a lack of universal belief. I see Evil because I call it so. I see Good because I call it so.
What I really see, is movement; is action; is things happening and things not happening. What I do is judge them. What I do, is try to answer the questions they ask me: Is this action fair? and is this a just war? and is any domestication permissible?
That is the role we’re offered, and the role we have to take. We’re part of the powerful action, but our true power lies in the moment we step out and open our eyes to the consequences. We cannot see the marks on the road when we’re at the wheel. We cannot see the hole in the hearts when we’re sat at the front of the bomb. We must listen to the begging voice, emanating from our minds, to comprehend, to cast new light on the world around us. To always answer the questions better. We must read, and make ourselves read by those who come after. We must listen to the answers already given so that we might learn from them. Mankind’s question has not changed. Only the answers do.
We’re always trying to find ourselves; always learning to live with others; always creating meaning in a meaningless world. We’re taught that from the highest peak is the darkest abyss, and those who dare wander so high will someday fall into the void, devoid of all their gains. But those gains are never shy of worth, for the person who reaches them will be forever a better soul from it, and the persons learning about these gains will themselves be inspired to reach higher, to strive to see the world in a clearer light.
But these gains demand of us that we listen to the questions and put our life at stake when we try to answer them. No question is answered if you’re not willing to bet your life on it. And often we’re not. Most of the time we don’t know the answer so well. We’re rarely that intimate with truth. That’s why we need to get better. That’s the answer to why we need to keep looking.
There’s no shape,
no color, no texture,
to describe infinity.
There’s no warmth
or cold. No end and
no beginning. Even
ideas of time running
out run aground in
the face of infinity.
There’s no telling
what infinity is like
and what it is un-
like. There’s no
telling how it came
into existence. Yet
I never doubt,
right into the eyes,
when I catch you
Out walking today it dawned on me why my writing has been going better than usual these days. My fiction is flourishing, my pre-study notes are noteworthy. I noticed that in the latest things I’ve done, I’ve set myself a clear goal: some target to achieve with my writing. It sounds simple, and it probably is to most, but I’ve never really taken it seriously. I’ve always believed stubbornly in the grace of the muse, just coming down from the heavens, leading me on as soon as I let my fingers do the talking. It works sometimes, which is why I have been led on believing it to be the way for me. But after what has felt like a year of drought, where I’ve been stopped in my tracks more often than I’ve gotten on the train, where I have a hundred ‘saved drafts’ and a sad half-filled notebook of what can at most be described as attempts, it has finally started raining again.
Maybe it was the thunder the other night that woke me up, got me to realise that nature might just toast me any day now. I’ve probably already lived longer than most people in world history (how frightening a thought that is, how many poor souls left for dead in premature years). And I started setting goals before sitting down to write. Not much, necessarily. Just a theme and an ending — then let the words take form on the path there. It has helped tremendously with my ideas for my thesis, making sure I write down coherent thoughts instead of just scribbling down whatever loud nonsense came into my mind. And it has helped with the (still short) fiction I wrote to you yesterday (and plan to keep on writing). Especially that last one, the fiction to you, feels like such a shining light for me, telling me that I can do that kind of stuff, I can write fiction and be attentive to a storyline. Even if it’s just for a short period so far, it’s longer than 99 % of anything I’ve ever managed to concentrate on. It has a purpose, it has a direction. It might not be very original, and its intentions might be questionable at best, but it flows from my fingers like I’ve never tried before.
Maybe it’s just your presence that gives new life to my words. The whole muse-thing being true after all. But I like to think that I have at least found out a little something on my own as well. I’ll grant you the joy to write, I’ll grant myself the method.
It really has started raining now, and if it wasn’t because I’d been in front of my computer all day, reading papers for the thesis and spending indecent lunch break minutes continuing the fiction to you, I’d use the sound of the rain to write on. But I also strongly believe that every good day of work must come to its conclusion. And I’m hungry.
“It’s the simplest thing when we think about it,” his eyes in animated conflict, trying their best not to spoil the dream his lips were about to tell, “how easily we can make this work, just like breathing; it’s the most necessary things, like eating, breathing, loving, that don’t even take any effort at all when we do them right. It’s only when we hit upon a bumpy road we even notice that we’re doing these things. It’s not until you get a cold that you think about your breathing. It’s not until your throat is sore that you start questioning your appetite. And love flows easily, as easily as this, only when we forget about tomorrow and just drift with it.”
She buried her head in the depths of his chest, trying both to listen to his heart, to where all that romantic nonsense came from, and to tear it out before it all became too much, would become too real for them to escape this thing they had. She felt his hands playing with the strands of her hair, turning them around as if examining their degree of reality.
“There’s this philosopher,” he said, as he so often said, “who claims that something’s reality is determined by our ability to sense it. That my hands are my hands because I can see them and use them.” He turned his right hand around before his eyes before letting it fall to the center of her back. “But I don’t think he quite appreciated how different that makes the world for each person, depending on what they sense.” His hand moving in circles on her back, her arms starting to grip him in a tight hug. “Because surely I’m sensing a very real thing in this world right now, love, that only you and I can feel. I mean, sure, other people can feel love, but they won’t feel this love, not like we do.”
She tilted her head upwards, catching his gaze down upon her. Her legs moved, her arms moved, her face moved up right in front of his, matching his smile. “Let’s teach your philosopher about love,” she said.