The Original Dream

I claim to want riches, lots of money, exquisite sculptures and paintings, one of a kind of everything under the sun, collector's items, precious things, everything, a fancy house on the beach, another in the city and a third in the hills.

Maybe I want love and happiness, to work on something enchanting, inspiring and motivating, to surround myself with people who challenge me, engage me intellectually.

To be able to write the stories that appear in my mind at the oddest of moments, when I'm walking or talking or looking out the window on a cold rainy day, when I'm laughing or crying, to be able to make words feel emotions, to be able to translate this wonderful magical experience of living into words and sentences.

I want to sing the songs that I make up in my dreams, in time with every step I take when I'm awake. To hum, maybe whistle, to describe what it's like to be in my shoes through tunes.

I want to dance, each step following the rhythm of the beating of my heart, each movement a reflection of the deep, dark corners of my soul. An expression of why I am who I am and what it is that makes up this consciousness that I call myself.

The dreams of castles, gems and riches coexist with those of freedom and expression, coexisting, supporting, growing, not judging. For they are all the same, these dreams, manifestations of desires of grandeur, material and of the mind.

They all spin in a tight whirlpool, the occasional memory or emotion joins in for the ride before going back to their respective areas of expertise. This is the world of dreams, and everyone is welcome.

And if I walk through them, brushing aside the ones that get tangled in my hair, holding back the ones that try to engulf me, push away those that try to absorb my humanity, there is a calm centre. Nothing spins, there is no sound, no feeling. There it is, the one original dream. Pure and untouched.

I'm an artist. Sitting by the street, cross legged on the pavement, on the rocks by the stream with my feet in the water. And I create, paintings of people, places and things. Obscure, abstract images which are at the same time a depiction of clarity. Paintings lacking conventional beauty rather containing some ethereal quality, brush strokes representing interconnected thoughts and philosophies, that no one really gets but everyone pretends to understand.

posted from Bloggeroid

Our Twisted Coexistence

Two little dots once met, one blue, one purple, by chance, bumping into each other, almost not meeting, running over each other, hurrying away in their separate lives. But meet they did, and quite the union it was. A whirlwind romance of minds, bodies, ideas and emotions. They stuck to each other, each reducing to half a dot to form one whole together. And they separated, teaching each other what they knew about love, life and the philosophies of existence, and they each grew, realizing it is better to be two whole dots interlinked than to be half of a whole. And they split occasionally, pain and despair of the worst kind, culminating in a wondrous, almost child-like bliss. Their colors faded, contaminated with the greens and yellows of jealousy and lies, the brilliant gold of the worst kind of pain and manipulation, then the blue and purple shone through and finally it was a bit too much to bear and all at once, their union ended.

But they moved together, spiralling around each other, parallel lines mostly, other times helices around a common centre, increasing in radii until the loneliness of being the only dot in a world of black became too much to bear and they met, a twisted, explosive coexistence, cohabitation, before they repelled with twice the force of their attraction and moved away.

Maybe, just maybe, it was better to exist in separate planes, occasionally interacting, than to attempt to coexist.

posted from Bloggeroid

The Cave of Thought

It was a cold, dark night. A storm raged on with no indication of an end in the near future. It was the sort of night that would serve as a backdrop for many dramatic stories in the millennia to come, stories of bravery, treachery and star crossed lovers. So yes, a fitting backdrop to the story of God.

Three cavemen sat huddled around a fire (yes, they’d discovered the fire, but not the wheel just yet). They were sheltered from the storm by a makeshift cave, a little hollow by the side of the mountain with a jutting roof structure.

They were isolated from their tribe, separated by at least a few tens of kilometres, all dense forests and steep cliffs. They had sneaked out earlier in the evening to harvest some of those strangely shaped leaves that grew in some clearings in the forest. Some of the gatherers had found the leaves and they burned it one night, the smoke was found to heighten awareness and experiences and induce a delirious state of mind.

These three were hunters, and they’d gone into the forests to hunt a wild boar that had upset their settlements one night when these leaves were found and smoked. By the time they got back, the tribe elder had banned anyone from burning them, the effects were too dangerous, unpredictable and uncontrollable, he ruled.

It felt like they were in a whole other world, they said, those who had the opportunity to inhale some of that wonderful, magical smoke. The world felt brand new, the colours were brighter, the air was lighter and it was a wonderful life after all. It sounded like magic and they had to have some, in spite of the warnings and the bans. So, after sunset, they sneaked out of the village and into the forest.

And now they were stuck in this cave until the storm passed. They made a fire to keep warm. When it started to appear as though the rain wouldn’t relent, they decided to burn the leaves.

A few hours later, they had each inhaled a sizeable quantity of smoke and the colours were brighter, the air was lighter and the world seemed less mysterious. Ideas, oh so many ideas were just floating around in the air, waiting to be picked, comprehended and known. In a few thousand years theories would emerge that every idea had already been thought of and everything labelled ‘new’ was merely a repackaging of something that already existed, this story, however, happens before all that and these ideas were fresh, never seen before, brand new, completely and entirely original.

One of the men plucked an idea out of the air, a bright red thought that was vying for attention. He spent a few minutes in a trance, the idea was a little too complex to be grasped by men who had only thought as far as food, water, shelter, safety and sex. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed different, he seemed enlightened, later on, story spoke of a warm glow surrounding his head.

“This world is beautiful,” he said. The others looked up, noticing the large shadow of a moth falling on the cave wall behind him. “Whoever made the world must have had an incredible imagination, and a lot of skill.”

“The fire is beautiful too. That man from the other village made the fire and he isn’t anything special.”

“No, no. The world is different. Hand crafted. Look at all of us, look at these plants, the rain and all the animals.”

The one who spoke about the fire looked sceptical. The other one who was sitting nearest to the fire looked at them blankly. The one affected by the red idea seemed passionate, almost manic.

“Can’t you see it? It was made. Each and every bit. Sculpted, planted, watered, nurtured. Everything bears his signature.”

“His?”

“Yes. The creator. The all-knowing, all powerful being that made you, me and the boar we killed. I don’t know who or what it is. But does it exist? Yes it does.”

The sceptic remained sceptical, the other one felt funny (You are stoned, said a green idea. Stones? He couldn’t comprehend). The rain had stopped. They gazed into the fire in some sort of trance, one searching for the Creator, one thinking of a better invention than the fire and the other watching a moth dance near the flames.

“Let’s head back. It’s not raining anymore.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I want something sweet.”

“Berries?”

They would have preferred chocolate, had it been invented but that’d take a while, so they had to make do.