[Heavy On The Shadow Run]

all else

Perhaps all resounding trademarks of philosophy, whether written or discoursed for colorized permanence, should start with the term 'perhaps' by some fabled fashion to constitute itself unabridged, taught absolute to mirror the immense vastness of this bewildering trait too illusive by the stretch of its extremities, too unstable to make use of its foundation. Perhaps we continue, dawn masks upon the stage, anticipate the reverberation of every quantifiable sound condemned to its space, eager to escape the silence. Perhaps there inhabits truth in the whites of noise, where wraith-like waves of every color sway gray, obscured into the listener. Perhaps the listener imagines this truth, perhaps this truth imagines the listener, blackens voyeur into value, recognizes co-conspirator even in the remoteness of stifling darkness where truth forbade entry of its light.
 
Perhaps there are morals to stories that are told in lengths throughout time, suspicions of mindful morsels melded to the tapestries foretold by brethren, emboldened, endeavored meaning, well and proud the pursuit of greatest statures of philosophy; to uphold pristine like a temple encompassing the sky with its sacred dimensions held secret behind impenetrable stricken walls laid thick with isolation. Emptiness howls forsaken tones through phantasmal passageways, wielding wanderers lost in dense catacombs as furrowed in a lofty hand; patterned like a labyrinth to the seeker whose merits conjure fate; like a fortress to the third eye, a sanctuary to its shadow. Welts of teardrops fallen onto ground bring it unto form. Nothing is safe. Nothing is sacred. To condone such statements divulges bleak existentialism. Although I succumb to the hunger in truth moralizing this ideology, I seek balance as an optimist. Feel as I must, I hope for the best, prepare for the worst, nurture the prophetic chasm centered betwixt these extremities; where birthed are fortunes, circumstances, revealings in their wake; that trudge through dirt, creep and burrow toward the surface, enter time and space bursting with precedence; then alas perish with the past, realities consumed by dust.

Envisioning embrace I point and focus on the breath. I breathe steadily, inwardly inhaling harmonies, the surrounding energies dowsed with chastity I identify as the good in nature which serves me wealth most graciously. I remain steadfast, stay humble, endure motion, imbued by the eloquence of its kinetics; the course of one complete lifespan of the universe; an episodic exactness spun from death to rebirth, exhausting yet another expiration. Each enigmatic cycle reflects but a single heartbeat pounding the entirety; where writhed and swelled inside the ribs a crypt doth holds a thunderous heart, cradled by echoes' everlastingly rendered silences. Brooded by gleaming crimson flow, each echo symbiotically devours its kindred, and then in turn feeds upon itself until extinct, until deafening muteness becomes all that remains of noise. The quieted heart pulsates from oblivion once more, from the nothingness it neared, like a spark within the void. Again I endure until breathing reaches brimmed capacity, all entrances and fleeting paradigms understood yet compelled to persist poised without avowal, for these blasting echoes subjugate intrigue, from whims and emblematic flurry to feats' circumspection, to the unraveling of truth commuting energetically through its veins.

Then, I breathe outwardly, repelling stalks of dissonance to dither at their ends, what foul, sordid spiritedness no longer serves me in my conquest, permeating from within, from depths where it hid, as I did, from the drought of the sour world; near devoid illumination, too dimly lit to survey lands where weary light had faded beneath spoils of failures unremitting. I exhale that which sought to drown me, incapacitate me at my weakest countenance. Truth descends bound to the suchness of its shape, like a diadem demure dropped into the tidal streams of consciousness, where dreams from waking life are met with exquisiteness. I exhale that which kept me spellbound from my worth. From defeat a dying falsehood relinquishes, surrenders, sets aflame the veil it wore, a robe to disguise itself as truth. This finality brings about the calm, a provocative mist of verdant setting, a lush manifest paradise comprised of splendid greenery, enriched by ancient hues; a sweet passivity of reds; blissful pinkish blush twirling giving evidence to wind; ornamental violets looming over shades of plum and midnight blues; soft browns and grays relaxed upon the eye; orange elements aglow like fire dancing across the enchanting landscape; pearl white clouds pierced by sunlight rays, draped by fluorescent waterfalls of otherworldly yellow, which swoop below and heat the fertile ground; its humming soil wet with promises; prisms and truths at ends with reckoning.

There is more to the road than simply the road, more to the path than just the path. Quiet the fuss suspecting where they lead, whether toward enlightenment or horizons romanticized by euphoria, from valley to the peak. I am seated at the pinnacle, my discipline alongside me. The diplomacy of stars orbit overhead, as curated in my pulse and enlivened in the heart; expressive like a dream with faultless acquiescence. The self transforms, awakening no semblance of self. What paths complexly led to this divine discovery dissolve in arrant equilibrium. I am surrounded by my center. All that is is with me, I am without all. Perhaps there is nothing left to ponder.
[Myth Veil]

surrounded from within, part III: interface fatigue

Subjectively, I could spend a lifetime living a life beyond its amplitude interpreting what a solitary work of art means, and devote hours upon hours reconditioning that principle with an ever-evolving state of mind. Then, upon the account my mortality surrenders itself and my gaze softens to a close, as eyelids bow down extracted from the heavens and my final breath delivers this legacy of borrowed energy to the center extending everywhere, outwardly present in all places, I will realize at long last, free from doubt, cleared from reluctance, that that voluminous meaning struck me down, possessed me with sublimity, not over lengths of time through trifling trials or brave sufferings—my effete hand at this mortal coil—but at early glance! Truth entered me, enriched me, and sang the melody vital to my soul, ambient lushness of the ocean divine as heard by a sound and spotless mind. From that coruscation stemmed sumptuous awakenings adorned, patterned by that paragon, in that my dreams forever bled in homage to that inexplicable fascination, until alas I would dream no more the flailing of that beauty. Perhaps deep within I am romanticizing tragedy.

Perhaps the theme I wish to underscore is that of hope. In my lifetime dreams take forms, lucidity I implore, as words and song, tendencies toward opulence in music to drown in luscious, sultry soundscapes, those dark and eerie, wistful sensibilities which I truly long for—o' how I wish to do more with these visions. Dreams take forms as sentiments, fluidity in behavior, the compassion I convey to ease the tension of individuals around me in daily congregation. I feel immense suffering in others, overwhelmingly so. Dreams take forms as heavy hopes I deploy to lift the many burdens that no living being ought to bear. These lifting forms veritably define me, yet somehow even in flight I find I retain melancholic disposition. I wish to be more grateful in my life regarding people I love wholeheartedly, including those I barely know yet wish to express such love and warm sincerity, likewise regarding my potentiality hidden low in some turmoil of reality. When I awaken from this dream I will learn to not be so merciless in my pursuit of happiness.

Meddling truths, they do me in. Ponderous entries, what walls I build from them, confound and construe withal values hauntingly adduced—a maddening portrayal of underachievement, hindering fears, tiresome importance, personal burdens, open-ended upkeep of the bourgeois life presumed substantial, and the conquest to face and overcome these tribulations triumphantly—all for the sake of betterment, the loft of ideals aimed at beauty, freedom, love, truth, traits that reckon to be traits. All in all but ephemeral, I take them overboard, leave behind a barren, wooden husk defeated by its own compass, and sink with them to that fond depth tethered to the dreams that I envision.

No words, no eyes. How shall I take what is given to me? If I cannot see in the dark, I will never see at all.
  • Current Mood
    exhausted exhausted
[Myth Veil]

surrounded from within, part II: everything revisited

During these examinations of art I start to wonder, as I become unraveled, undisciplined by the experience, whether or not I am forcing meanings upon myself, characterizing the deepest pool of self immersed in truth. I perish from these distractions. To be convinced that the totality of meaning, mountainous with its notoriety to the expository explorer, indeed fits is like trying to imagine the perpetual division of the numerical 'one'. In theory the singularity in mathematics bears distinctiveness that is presumptuously indisputable. Able senses paired with tools infringe a limit, can only follow the golden sections of an incessant spiral so far along before they dwindle out of view and venture forth as theory, a return to origin with singular, blinking transpiration. The eternal beauty is that there will always be a return to origin with each great plummeting divide.

I find I revisit works of art, make it a priority—perhaps instead letting them find me—so as to keep the circumstances trailed at abstraction alive, the demands of preliminary intrigue that I will never come to understand. Perhaps if I dwell on them, through them long enough as if sought to be personified I will begin to perceive what art sees in me, mirroring no words to describe me, no determinable features to ascertain, no nest or context or foreboding for my afterglow. When I dare become abstract, how shall I be perceived? Pay no mind, and I will serve no purpose.

Art survives as it does because the observer reciprocates two paradigmatic functions, impression and preservation. When art speaks to me I want to be a part of it as it is now a part of me. It inhabits my mind and together we devise meaning, and this code is infinitely embedded into my being, simply because I acquiesce the capacity for it. The end result is purpose, functionality made useful. Preservation is key to allow for the impression to flourish. Notably, the implications of possessing a physical piece of art are monumental—the pinnacle of abstract and organic connectivity. Art is given function, given purpose; where meaning is implanted, truth emerges.

A lifetime could be spent deciphering a work of art. With every moment that passes, an everlasting gaze gets captured. Each instance of thought propels an infinite number of others, each housing the consummate construct of meaning amassing its momentum. In part, meanings define the spectator who examines, exemplifies them. Oppositely in the collective overlapping of thoughts, the premise for the spectator is to define meanings quintessential to growth. As time evolves and meanings are devoured, remembered, regulated, truths become altered to satisfy conditions of the wavering state of self—completeness there to harvest, there in abundance for the taking.

There is a balance on the other side; all that is lost is found within. Meanings may seem to come and go, wither and fade or grow with variances in amplitude, like desert wind sculpting the bustling, sandy landscape. The mind's eye's beyond idiosyncrasy pertaining to short-lived corporal senses. Depicted peering inwardly, the mind transforms from telescopic objectification via an array of human mysticism, to an endless ocean perceived by all facets of knowing rivaling certainty from an all-encompassing center, with otherworldly light so magnificent, so impeccably bright, pulsating amaranthine brilliance in an interminable fusillade, that pierces sharply through the third eye, envelopes the entire unending ocean—thus invokes an ancient language, becomes one with its enlightened sentinel no longer that of mind but celestial, boundless light—awakened, avowed, all within.
  • Current Music
    https://soundcloud.com/dalot
[Myth Veil]

surrounded from within, part I: sunk to mirror

It is strange to stare at art. One stares until all meaning is consumed, all shapes and triumphs swallowed up. One stares devouring figurative contemporaries with swift, encompassing prestige, abandons blazon in their youth.

One stares compiling truths stretched out upon the dawn, its shimmering brilliance spellbound through the vastness, as if to channel that unending conquest inward by yields of subjectivity, as if to funnel that heavenly summit through an array of sentiment, to invigorate that which spans its ratio, sheer golden as it glistens. One stares at but shards of the enormity seeded and surmounted unto self meticulously sprouting aura. One stares with hunger inside the mesmerizing flock of twilight, like a hunter surveying its prey that lurks about the dense landscape, existent in a shroud of syncopated entrapment. To learn the timid bending of the shadows signalling their keeper is key to the methodical kill, blood for blood, bound by basis, 'to eat or be eaten in their turn'.

Such ancient tastes, the exquisite tongue swirls perplexities to the proficiency in light. Its divine preservation stays committed to memory, analogous to that of an auriferous music box playing to the resonance of the heart, itself a wide splendor of universe, whose echoes birth and spiral out to reach no bounds, no surrounding ends returning, no terminus with which to compromise. For every exquisite beat that chimes outward and onward, an eternity looms in the folds between them. O' how they speak to me! colors bled from the celestial body where exacting translations confer their openings kindred to my everything. Further I seek to know the self reflected boldly in the deep. Further I reap the hallowed wealth exploited at the center, and befit the immaculate majesty dissolved within its measures.

Further I pivot perilously toward the reckoning of enduring an antithesis, the I within, the I without, waves of thunderous clamor that clash and heave, trespassing upon phantom shores, resounding truths with which to exemplify, the I, nowhere, imploring softer space: Come silent, quiet sleep. Awaken then, invoke it thus, the universe swells and sings in you! Verses ethereal open wide! Nothingness, in celebration of the confounded term, strengthens and emboldens in breathing fire upon its wake, engulfing, ushering defiance to the lavishes of passivity pronouncing pure, predisposed profundity. Such wrought bewilderment in bearing evocation seethes intricacies confined to chaos, patterns enriched to the tethers of prim dimensions to quantify in meaning a paradoxical pulse to the widening eye peering at all its space enamored with endeavor.

The gaze, still. However temporal in that dour state, it never feels justifiable to alas break away, never feels replete to have pearlish eyes cease exhuming abstract endlessness. It is appalling to think that all of it shall never quite fit within the infinite confines of the mind, nor absorbed as whole, grasped entirely, stored in full. It is formidable to believe that any episodic slice of life shall never be of optimum duration to attain in absolution that which one perceives intently and devoutly.

In time, quivering comprehensions reveal themselves as shrouds upon the expanse and collapse of mind. If all primitive meanings fill it to the brim—whose center is met at its immeasurable circumference—all derivative meanings may occupy that identical space, seemingly interwoven in procuring infinite continuum. If the mind were to spill over, what drenched dreams may come of it, what truths to saturate the proclivity to exploit them further still?
  • Current Music
    https://soundcloud.com/markvalkner (privately sampling some new material, will post soon)
[Touch Space]

such strange and mellow melancholy

Mother, today marks your first birthday since your passing. I will devote the day playing rich and vibrant music for you. Candles will be lit aflame by your aura. I miss you dearly. Te amo...

In the happenstance family reads this: Please illuminate the day with goodness poured like sweet nectar from the temple of the heart. I love you all so very much.

...

"Also, my mom wanted to ask when your mom's birthday was? She said she had a dream about her. That she was in a bridal gown. Not the one that she has now, but a different one. And that she was happy. She told me to tell you this."

I feel her happiness tugging at my spine. She is reunited, returned to origin. I forevermore melt effervesced by this resonance.
  • Current Mood
    peaceful peaceful
[Suction]

live in sphere

From birth
I am taught selflessness
The compassion in me
Enables this
Suffering comes naturally
I am to overcome
The constant feeling
Of necessity
The burdening fear
Of non-fulfillment
Designs that plague my efforts
That shift in truth
As ceaseless as shadows
Wrought and flung against the light.



To death
I embark with all purity
My wisdom affords
Humble in its luxury
Our stops along the way
Consist of valued ceremonies
In which we bury our burdens
Then from sunset to sunrise
We feast and dine with mourning
At times she undresses by the sea
Fondled underneath by moonlight
And our eager drunken curiosity
It is a passion rhythmic to the waves
And then inside sand
We sleep tight
And dream vivid delight
Nude like the breeze
Fragrant like the caress
Of an early dawn
Beckoning rise to our sails
Filled by the glory of wind
Its secrets take us far
But first we bid farewell
To our lover our beauty
Our heavy hearts entwined
Faces wet with tears
Rummaged by bittersweet kisses
Final embraces lasting for eternity.



Only a lover
Can truly know someone
Like a phantasm
Emerging from its dream.
  • Current Mood
    indescribable
[Another View]

nebulous humility

Propensity thus the allure
Should one look into mirrors
A myth within—ineffable eyes
The paradox has a home
A point in time
Circumspect yet to be
Referencing continuation
When chaos becomes
Not at large but focally routine
Under the code of moon
To outshine the sun
With the light it thieves.
  • Current Music
    https://soundcloud.com/cashmerecat
[Another View]

mongrol moniker

"This is question, English is faulty. Thank computer to translate to help. SORRY!!!!!
"At often, the goat-time install a error is vomit.
"How many times like the wind, a pole, and a dragon?
"This insult to father's stones?
"Please apologize for your stupidity. There are a many thank you."
[Suction]

we will bury our dead

Day of the Dead, comprised of three total, ends today. I never celebrated it growing up, odd being half-Mexican, but I acknowledge and respect it. It is important to understand death alongside life, like effervescent shadows poured from the body flailing across these paths we take. Death entered my life at an early, developmental age. I can only implore meaning in this demurely if not gravely, utmost sincerest upon learning newfound ways to weep. I do not recall when I do, but strains of me concurrent to the melt of eyes, as burdens commit themselves to flee, collect at pools of this heart they shape—if only to shower the ones I love if ever disheartened, to wash and soothe their haggard souls. Here, eclipsed, to the day.









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  • Current Mood
    peaceful peaceful