monochromeshuteyes @monochromeshuteyes - Tumblr Blog

Just because you understand something, it doesn't mean you're spared from the horror of it

But something was different. Something had died. Something nameless. And it felt wrong to name it. It was a small fragile thing. Perhaps an animal. Perhaps a diary. Perhaps the savior of the world. But it was a small thing of the forest. And it belonged to the distance between us. Something had died. And we no longer had any dreams at nights. We, limbs tangled and a mess of hair lying in the cold bed. We could not dream. But you were never here. Your footprints left a mark in the grass. A shape I've traced on sketchbooks and burnt many times. It was similar to the shape the dead thing left. A small meadow in the ground. The place felt eerily occupied by something intangible, yet ghastly empty. Something had died. The animals of the forest gathered around it everyday. I did too, it felt like a familiar grave. Something had died, but nothing was buried.

Something was missing but nothing could be traced.

Something was different at the end. Our dreams had stopped. Our love had stopped. But it didn't matter

We no longer dreamt. How terribly tragic.

I have written nothing on this earth. Not one word calls me father and I have no children. The tips of my fingers are islands on themselves and their bones are dead trees for funerals. I've emptied myself of myself when I've called myself a poet. The poetry leaves me as a lover and returns to a rightful place as fate. I've written nothing.

There is no word that arises from me. I am emptier than a nineteen syllable line crafted under pink leaves. I'm a poet without poetry. Without the poet.

My body is a template for wounds and healing

There is nothing in this world that dies. The letter I wrote to you that will decay in the earth will not die, the indentations of ink and my love in it will reflect itself in the pattern the rose plants will grow. The letter will not die. The electricity in my body that your name invokes will not die. It will lead me to my death and dream in the most peculiar way and my body will burn as a unique pattern of electricity. My faith has shaped my hands have shaped the world. The last atom before the end of time will have its name because my hands gave themselves a name. My name will not die.

Nothing dies. Nothing dies. Nothing dies.

My prayers are a circumambulation around a circle. A step into the sacred. A step out of myself. Yet, a step into myself. Boundaries do not belong to this realm of prayers. The light has no ears and the divine divines all prayers. My feet are made for circles. I carve domes with my hand and my feet itch the paint in my being as I walk. I'm all for being heard. My light ought to be seen, I pray. My light ought to have a place inside the center of the circle. All prayers are a circumambulation around a circle. The tree that breathes, the animal that eats, the bird that flys, the serpent that slithers and the man that thinks and divines love, all say prayers without a word. My prayers is not kneeling, hands clasped and a mind that wishes to empty itself before something more. My prayer is a reason without words, a will without light and a love without the beloved.

My prayer is a walk to the centre. That which is the center without an end, the circumference without a center.

There is not an orb of sunlight in my closed hands. A guiding light, one that might be named hope. Only the kisses of the moon float over my skin. Gentle whispers of kindness, fading away as soon as they are felt. I sit here in the dying light, my castles and my fields barren and broken from time. Not a single dream of death nor salvation. Dreams are made of light and dark. Another drama of soul. There is not an orb of sunlight in my closed hands. Only the kisses of the moon.

I am barren in being loved. Only loving comes as beautifully as breathing to me.

There are times when you want your blood inside your body. All the redness in flux. Inside the safety of vessels. The heart is no crossroad, no one meets each other. And as a human, things are meant to be this way. All the blood running parallel to each other, running infinitely. But a creative act entails a rapture. An unraveling of truth lying below the surfaces. Inside the cells of blood, inside nucleus. One must then cut at oneself with care, or perhaps with a berserk rage. The situations always vary but still demand blood to spill. One must make the heart a crossroad, let memories of a deep history flow into each other so the right thing may flow outside. When it does, when it has left the poet, it remains etched on his medium. The poet settles in a deep sleep, he is more of a man now. But less of a god.

Absence is an inflorescence blooming in my fingers. This lack leaves me as a perfect paint for an unempty canvas. Reminiscence comes and paints my lungs in weight. The night comes and my windpipe whispers the names of all that I've lost. Maybe my body is truly silent, perhaps all the names are etched on my windpipe, when I breathe with heaviness, the names merely come to life. A sleep, then, is nestled deep inside an orchestra of strings and woodwinds.

There is no whatsoever pollination in the gaps of my fingers, they do not create because they do not touch each other, or you. I bloom no flowers then, my garden is more than empty. It bears the names and corpses of old flowers, all because a single drop of tear is no substitute for water.

The weight of emptiness, the empty of all that my hands could have held, sits deep in me at times. Leaving me as haunted and solitary as the ghosts I write.

What do I have to do with the ephemeral petals of a rose? The soft sway of it, the perfect imitation of your movements. The flush redness blurring the surroundings, a reminder of your lips moving like poetry. Is this my relation to the rose? That of an admirer, I love it so because I find you as beautiful as the eyes of my past lover's.

Perhaps then, it is better to not love the rose at all. I cannot love even a single petal as an imprint of the past, I can only love it as it is in those moments, nestled in the nature's flow. Love that loves because it's beloved is a reminiscent of the past is no love at all.

It's merely turning yourself into a memory

So much of me rests on evenings. My love for you rests on evenings, all the poetry sleeps on the horizons of evenings. It rests on the colors dripping down on our bodies under the blue twilights. The colors blending and merging in our embrace to make a rainbow at night, a nocturnal miracle. All my poetry and all my metaphors melt in front of you, I'm more than laid bare in the sphere of your love. Barely a man. Questions tear away all my unnecessary layers, all the layers of my fears and my wounds. I ask to myself, what is a poet anyway? I'm barely a lover even in the wound Eros can give. He punctures hearts so they can love. I ask the heavy air in the distance between us, is it that wounds make a man love, is it the hole in the heart? The window that lets light in. If so, I want you to know that I want my heart to explode inside my body. Color me red like the twilight I love. No more windows and doors, I want to dance in the open fields with you. Like a dream, the flower fields wave and dance by in the wind as we lie down. No matter how frequently I dream of it, there is no way to tell how much of us is entangled at that moment. In bonds of love and distance. Know that I'm still melting away beside you, barely a lover, barely a poet that only breathes in evenings.

All I know is that I love you. That is all of the lover in me. That is all the poetry I need to say.

I wonder if life is beautiful at times. It is no coincidence these questions come to me only as the evening afterglow dissolves into the night. But I do not want to stop at questions, move my lips and feel the weight of the plates of earth moving onto each other. There are certain times when such questions leave a tremor in me that changes my shape. I do not want to move my lips and blink at the end, look absent-mindedly at the clear night sky and move on. I want to write, there is a innate drive in me to write. It is no doubt that the words in my mind hold more of me than I hold myself in my own arms. The creation always has more power than the creator. The immanent creative fire is flooding man, burning away at his sanity at times. Yet, driving him towards an untrodden path to greatness if he is willing to open his eyes instead of merely blinking.

So, is life beautiful? Certainly. Certainly. There is no denial that the sublime can pervade each object and subject. But it is only experienced immediately, no retrospection brings the sublime beauty of nature and world to man's soul. One looks out the window at eve, such as I, sees the streaks of yellow and orange blurring into each other, one is reminded of lovers, the other is reminded of stars, one of God and the other of magic of nature. The night gently marches naked into the bed of the sky, covers herself in satin silk clouds and a divine beauty presents itself to the eyes that are open. This moment, this moment of experience is when the images inside man's soul fire into dynamic dances. A bacchanalia of holiness pours out into the world, the world being embracing, takes on the spirit and is instantly enlightened. This is beauty. Beauty is only experienced immediately. An impression that burns at an instant, it leaves behind a sketch that you can look at again and again. Each time it catches a glimpse, you fill more color in it. More and more till the spectrum of color is broken into an infinite scale that no science can explain, not even the complex faculties of thought and word crumble at the supposes miracle. Beauty, in simple words, is the immediate sublime of the world, be it the outer or the inner. Aesthetics judge the degree of it. But to more or less extent, the sublime is pervading everything as long as the individual's soul can dance.

Life is beautiful.

But in no way it is only beautiful. Not even the most privileged optimist, unless one is riddled and conflicted with oneself, can say that there is no ugliness in life. Just as the beautiful burns itself at once when seen, so does the ugly. The ugly, the grotesque, the filthy and the vile are still, no matter how repulsive they may be to human nature, still an experience of the sublime. But it only foolish to say that the ugly exists so that the beauty may be valued, that it may be cherished and unless the ugly is seen the beauty cannot be appreciated. It is a childish thing to assign the ugly as the currency of beauty. This is the exact thing you teach naive children so they may appreciate things, but one stops at this conclusion, of course one remains at the level of child in the matters of the ugly. It is not morally wrong to carry this belief, although anyone believing in the privation boni of the ugly and the beautiful will not at all be fit for the blows of ugliness in life. Ugly is as necessary as the beautiful. Not merely a sole reminder that beauty must be loved and be given attention to. The ugly has its own substance, its own value and is not a lack of beautiful. If the spirit of the ugly is stolen the moment one denies it and declares it to be a lack of its opposite, one immediately falls into the trap of being the victim of the beautiful. Then it circles back and that man can no longer differentiate between the beautiful and the ugly, even his morality then is a questionable one, his ethics then are solely based on the aesthetics of his judgement. If the metaphysical world of sublime is indeed true, it surely punishes the man who denies the ugliness of life. There are primordial horrors in the depths of soul, in the depths of psyche. Horrific images and horrific blasphemies for the religious men and all alike, because of course no man is irreligious. Crippling as the experience of this sublime may be, it is the sole sculptor of the path that leads to growth in the individual who loves beauty, and vice versa. It becomes necessary to say that the ugly (even the evil) has its weight in the scale of life, in the sublime. Because it is increasingly clear that so many are addicted to the one side of the scale of sublime. The ugly has its own colors and its own shadows. As such, there is no escape from this experience, no hiding and no running away. One gorges on the beautiful and his soul becomes immobile. The dance and the bacchanalia cease at once as it is realised in the depths that man has forgotten the tension of opposites. That now the scale is stationary and no longer suspended in the air for God to play. The ugly is also an immediate experience of the sublime. It leaves behind its own portrait, but to many the retrospection on this portrait pains more. But it is not so because the ugliness is inherently more intense than the beautiful, it is only so because we are so used to the beauty, so adamant on her preservation, her studies and forget we are tangled in her vines and in her love. Only when you have calmly detached yourself from the beautiful, without the violence of emotions or flood of thoughts and without a scratch on her portrait, only then you can look back at the ugly moments of life and watch as they dissipate into the evening sky.

The more one looks at the beautiful and the ugly, the more explosive the beautiful becomes and the more dull and mute the ugly becomes, they blur into each other. Their limbs touch each other at last in ecstasy and their closure is the victory of the sublime. Now, the soul is silent and it dances in no movement. Realising that the opposites are united, the momentum is more than ever but still at rest in the center of one's being. Yes, the sublime is exactly this. The center and the unity of its divided two.

This, this is my answer to the question.

My little anchors of love were tangled in her hair. Extending to her hands, the color of wet desert and the scent of black earth. All my tunnels lead to the light that cusped at her lips. All my stories ended with her arrival or her departure. There is not one reality where her apologies do not drop on me like night rains in a desert. Cold, cruel and belonging to a place where they shouldn't. All my love was anchored to her, the moment the sun shined and light died out was when I feebly sailed the sea on her gentle visage. No cloud bears our name that does not dissipate into vague images. I've always mused that our love refused to last after winter, that it would not see the new buds of all the flowers that are given to beloved and the lovers. My little anchors of love were the hope in my heart, all strung on the port that were your hands. And you guided them like the a guide of stars on the nocturnal cosmos of unnamed constellations.

You, my love, were the sun and the moon and the unity that nothing of me could divide. Our love was only indestructible till the moment I believed it was so.

I remember the glare of your portrait in the sun at dusk. The fine lines and the grooves of the brush strokes. You were there beside my empty love in the aftermath of our murders. You were still there beside my broken quill and white ink. I find your hair strands wound around the pens you left. They are all colored in monochrome rainbows and unseen colors. This is what I used to paint your eyelids, from the closed eyes to the serene retinas, I loved you deeper than your eyes saw me doing so. I vividly remember my lips moving swiftly as I recited all my dreams to you in the morning, the silken sheets and the cold embrace of our fingers intertwined in fists, they were the hooks on which my dreams left their message.

Your beauty stands beside the sky and the ocean. The unending love of gods and the wrath of humanity's belief. Hate has no place where little kisses are planted gently like rain in summer.

I loved you, but my love was only chthonic.

But you loved me. At that moment, it was celestial.

There's not a difference between the disturbance in my chest and the raised legs looking blankly at the sky. I can't be bothered to tell you all my stories. The thing I want to be met with isn't understanding without expression, I want to be met with a complete loss of words. A shock that runs to the bones and lights fire to illuminate your own past. Of course, I still have the sweet tender desire of watching you look at me for once. But right now, I'm the only one with an entire sky built in front of me to keep myself away from you.

I miss you. But nothing is the same anymore, the sky never stays the same. A moment's longing turns into a perennial yearning I have to etch on papyrus scrolls. The bare skin that spoke of inexplicable openness are covered in black veils. White veils for the flesh and black veils for the skin, there is not an inch for me to touch and feel your heartbeat through my bloody fingers. My hand stops at the boundary of confession, reaches only to a bare hearted excuse to look the other way, the other way out the window, into a world that belongs to me. I feel heavy that I cannot conjoin our worlds, I am unable to communicate with you. You, you who I naively gave my heart to. Now I struggle with words to you that lack "I". The me is gone.

Is it okay this way? The lack of heavy words and description make me anxious, it is as if I lack a language to love you. Syllables, words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, books, tomes, libraries, I lack an abundance of love and lips to say the love. I find myself left with a single paper and a pen. It did not take long to have my belief crack that we are the same, not so different after all. It shattered silently in the back of my mind as i dreamt at night. Quick and sharp. There are shards that penetrated my tongue and left an aftertaste of dreams. A bluish colored blood that flows like light inside my body.

I'm alone, in regards to you. This is my most distant estrangement that I cannot explain even to myself. I worry that I don't know where my confessions of love come from.

The mist morning sun, ever so glazed by the tears of the clouds. The moist earth burns under my soles as I chant our memories. You, a fragile thing of threads and color on paper. A memory itched in hieroglyphs and numbers. A dawn without a sky, you run and ruin my fields with a mere step. But your trail goes far into the Sun's flares, your first step shatters the walls of heaven. Your second step shatters the gates of paradise. Your third step destroys the scriptures of apocalypse. And I'm left with an unending Earth that is overflowing with my poetry.

Burn, burn against the cold winter ice. Do not let the twilight decide. The Fate that awaits me on a long night, howls louder still than the visions of the morning. You, you are the mist that cradles the Sun, unmoving and untouchable. Me, who craves the night and the moon, can only stand and chant memories.

There is blasphemy of the heart where time stops

All the while I wonder, if I could burn down the lines of the words we whisper and shout, what would we be left with? Mere vibrations of the air? Perhaps the dwelling of gods. The altars of worship and love. What would I be speaking to you if I wiped out the lines that contained my declarations? A commandment. Yes, we would be left with a commandment truer than the truth itself. The things that dreams are made of. The things that God is made of. There is more to two than it is to one. There is no love without relinquishing a few lines to make space for the divine. I'd empty myself half way for love to shine through.

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