About Fires

I laid breathlessly into blue sun storms,

Smoke rose from our skin in the darkness of the Universe,

You pulled my hair back, tighten your hand around my neck

And descended above me in light like the God that you are.

 

M.

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About Beginnings

About Beginnings

Tiffany: “I was a slut. There will always be a part of me that is dirty and sloppy, but I like that, just like all the other parts of myself. I can forgive. Can you say the same for yourself, fucker? Can you forgive? Are you any good at that?”

About the Word of the Day

About the Word of the Day
The pillars were white and tall in the branches of the old trees.
We were breathing hot air, undressing the girl with the tight dress the color of wine,
And for a still second a splintered thought came to my mind
From days of heavy madness and death pain, cursing that path, I knew, in each of those seconds,
That this is what life was always meant to feel.
Pure joy, shaking with uncontrollable self-made reality
Naked, skin to skin, smoke floating in the hot Greek air of the balcony,
Watching over the market and people, with the metal end, cold, glued to my hot lips and spine,
An endless deja-vu of ancient joyful times in which people did not know misery, or lies, or norms.
We were breathing hot air while the sky turned orange above the rooftops,
The black cats were all asleep and, while you were watching them, I was watching you.
There was no second of mistake or doubt in your smile
As there were no common words said to just fill up our sheets.
Everything was meaningful.
We would whisper as to not disturb time, a breathless calm in our endless storm.
Everything was silence filling the spaces between us
There was nothing above our minds and everything we created,
Not even the gods.
You were growing younger as I was putting my red lipstick on, I walked away first because I did not want to watch you leave
I did not understand endings but life still couldn’t be anything else but the joy I demanded. And had.
My God did not need to promise me anything,
He would never forgive me not living all my truth.
It was lust.
M.

 

About Charles

“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery–isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.”

About a Season

About a Season
She let loose her wide waves of dizzy hair
and filled the air with the sharp green from the bottom of the seas.
Spring came that day, in the afternoon, before sunset,
descending from the heights of her Greek contour,
White like the buds,
white like the walls of  timeless buildings,
white like the color of the calmness she puts on top of things,
lingering everywhere like the surreal color of her skin.
M.

About Pure Happiness

“In what act or thought of his has there ever been a self?
What was his aim in life? Greatness – in other people’s eyes. Fame, admiration, envy – all that which comes from others. Others dictated his convictions, which he did not hold, but he was satisfied that others believed he held them. Others were his motive power and his prime concern. He didn’t want to be great, but to be thought great. It’s his ego that he’s betrayed and given up. And isn’t that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of a self.
Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he’s honest and he derives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he’s great in the eyes of others. The man who wants money for a personal purpose – to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury – he’s completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They’re second handers. Aren’t they all acting on a selfish motive – to be noticed, liked, admired – by others? They place others above self… in the exact manner which altruism demands. A truly selfish man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn’t need it!
It is so easy to run to others. It is so hard to stand on one’s own record. You can fake virtue for an audience. You can’t fake it in your own eyes. Your ego is your strictest judge. They run from it. They spend their lives running. It’s simple to seek substitutes for competence – such easy substitutes: love, charm, kindness, charity. But there is no substitute for competence.
That, precisely, is the deadliness of second-handers. They have no concern for facts, ideas, work. They’re concerned only with people. They don’t ask ‘Is this true?’ They ask: ‘Is this what others think is true?’ Not to judge, but to repeat. Not to do, but to give the impression of doing. Not creation, but show. Not merit, but pull. When you suspend your faculty of independent judgement, you suspend consciousness. To stop consciousness is to stop life. Second-handers have no sense of reality.
Look at everyone around us. You’ve wondered why they suffer, why they seek happiness and never find it… If any man stopped and asked himself whether he’s ever held a truly personal desire… he’d see that all his wishes, his efforts, his dreams, his ambitions are motivated by other men. He’s not even struggling for material wealth, but for the second-hander’s delusion – PRESTIGE. A stamp of approval, not his own. He can find no joy in the struggles and no joy when he has succeeded. He can’t say about a single thing: ‘This is what I wanted because I WANTED IT, not because it made my neighbors gape at me. Then he wonders why he’s unhappy. Every form of happiness is private. Our greatest moments are personal, self-motivated, not to be touched.
I think the only cardinal evil on earth is that of placing your prime concern within other man. I’ve always demanded a certain quality in the people I liked. Now I know what it is. A self-sufficient ego. I COULD DIE FOR YOU. BUT I COULDN’T AND WOULDN’T LIVE FOR YOU!”
 
Ayn Rand / The Fountainhead

About Loneliness

About Loneliness

The bursting fields of golden grain kept the last second before bending under the breeze in an eternity. Time did not exist in the Caldera air, it was only the melting August heat.

Strangers came to wash away the regrets of their unfulfilled desires, also called sins, on the yellow rocky cliffs of the island snapped in two by the volcano. It was long before the drowning of the first Atlantis.

The green of the sea hid away their lives and thoughts and made them feel reborn in a sweet fogginess. They thought they were happy for a few dropping seconds, as small as the distances between their fingers holding them together. They were so in love with this kind of lies.

At sunset, the thousand years old nun started singing the song of never ending truth, which had existed on earth when the gods lived among people. It was a song about a lost greatness.

It was a songs about the love of the mind, the love of reason.

It was a song of sorrow which made the waves withdraw, unraveling ancient ships and the ghosts of their captains. The dolphins would come from the abysses and cry with silver tears.

People leaned closer to the edges, drowning in oblivion because they couldn’t take the burden and the beauty of truth.

The walls of the untouched monastery were shaking under the golden veils of the Goddess forgotten on earth when all the gods deserted the human shores.

She was swimming with the whales in the sea of sirens and didn’t hear their call.

She would come out of the eternity of all her lives and braid her hair with the last rays of sun.

The cliffs were praying for her loneliness to cease and find someone to match her heights.

People tried to comfort her ego’s loneliness by snapping into dust at her feet and calling it love. They didn’t know that a real God doesn’t feed on sacrifice but on courage and strength and conquered cities.

She did not have the human weakness of crying. She smiled, hearing the echo of her long gone god kings.

She would stand tall, refusing to fight time, to acknowledge it, to be subdued to it. Pain was created by people, serenity by gods.

When she turned her face to the sky, the darkness that holds the universe would withdraw and those who dared to look up could see beyond stars, planets and galaxies, twirling around, dancing in a vertigo. The Earth turned naked with the purest minds walking around in their beautiful pride. Everyone was scared of such sight, walking freely in naked pride. There were no human kings left either.

She was the perfect face of carelessness facing pain. Humans hadn’t invented a word for such power, so, in their desperate abandonment, they wrote the twisted stories of gods being banished from earth. As fake substitutes, they took prayers, silences and submissions.

M.