Monday, August 31, 2015

In a hurry / familiar faces and conversations through the night

I do not have much time tonight. I need to put these words down in a hurry.
It matters to say that my blog keeps reminding me of how urgent it is to edit. How urgent it is to re-write certain texts, to delete a few others. Time doesn't stop. Time doesn't slows down.
I saw familiar faces. Tonight, a small group of very different people sat at a park, during the night, and the conversation went from alien life, genetically modified food, to the Nazis, anarchy and lots of other stuffs. Inside of me, there's something waking up. And now, I simply need to lay down and try to sleep.
Goodnight!

Friday, August 14, 2015

Chris Spheeris "Rain (Eros)"

Music from the soul. A name that I have rediscovered while editing the old entries of this blog. Enjoy. And feel.

Tuesday, August 04, 2015

Ramblings

Good morning. Bedtime.
Seing some of my blog entries, I came to realize that some of the images that I have deleted from the albums, are disappearing from the entries. No wonder. But I am working on getting it edited. With time, I may repeat musics. With time, I may repeat images. But it's all about the words - without words, this blog would be naked. And this is the purpose of my blog: to ramble about my thoughts, about my inspiration, the source of such inspiration, about my feelings, about my desires, about love and hate, life and death.
I wonder. I wonder what's the end of all this. I do wonder what does the end means (in that "Book of Spirits" that I have read, doesn't the man says that Death isn't the end? Egyptians were pzrtially right, we're here preparing our departure for the after-death. Or for the beginning of real life). Even on that game that I was playing, "Death isn't the end". I wonder what does the end means and when will it all end.
The day has risen. Good morning.
I need to lay down and sleep. Bedtime.
I do wonder if one person ever finds peace. I wonder if there's peace at all.
The sun rises in the horizon. Wild horses run across the fields. The wind makes the high herbs to dance. Shadows wander. We've came this far and still we have nothing. They're all gone, Lord, and we have nothing. The wind is dancing with the tall summer grass.
I look around; I can't feel anyhing for anyone. Not even the sweet familiar faces mean anything to me - I loved them once, but even that is just a tiny memory. What is love, anyway? What does feelings mean, in the end?

I am wondering. I am wandering.
The world isn't what it is. It became what we made of it - hatred, death, destruction. It's ok. We're here for millenias and it has been what we've been doing ever since. It's our nature.
I feel somewhat of a call. When I think about that tiny village, that's so important to me, it feels like a call. When I think about vanishing from the city, then going to live in a tiny place in the middle of nowhere, it feel like a call from the core of my soul. It feels like a call of the wild, when I drop dead onto the desire of moving onto the countryside, with kilometers of green, mounts, wide blue or starry skies.
I am going nuts, some say.
I've neber been so sane, I believe.