Phase 1: Opening up
There is reality and then there is fiction. I don’t know which is true or how much of it is pretension. I wake up everyday remembering that I went to sleep thinking what I want to be, only to happen on to what I have become, realizing what I could be. Now, to be or not to be, that is not the question. For what I see beyond the sea makes my horizon. It is right here where I get confused. Fused in a fugue state, I stop. Or perhaps I don’t. It is at this point my reality become fictitious, a moment when my horizon is pretentious. I open up to my thoughts. Just to be, of what I could be.
No, I am not playing games with you. This is how my head works. The bleak phases of realities which make sense, drowns in fables of memoirs. What is and what is not, how much of it seizes my thoughts, I wish I knew. A frenzy of parallels! All of it passes by, almost all of it. And what remains, becomes my fictitious reality.
I can live with that. I can sense it, I can almost sense it. I am that part of reality which did not make sense. I am fiction, I am pretension, a frenzy of them. That is my reality. Feel it.
Phase 2: The pre-conditioning
I am not here to make sense but to sense. This is what I tell myself when I feel this discomfort of not knowing how to be. It’s been some time, I have been witnessing others, how they are. Seems like they know it, the manual, a thing that I find most strange. Don’t get it, I never did. A feeling of alienation sends the fragile self into a diminishing state of being.
A flower blooming.
There is fragrance,
And a stream of desire.
Collected thoughts, in forms of the playbook forms the identity. Internalized, almost internalized. Then an invisible barrier happens, a barrage of hesitance, doubts. The savior.
Growing flower yellow,
Young fella follows.
Intentions stumbles upon,
The cloudy dodgy mellow.
Wandering mind, dazed and confused, flowing restless arbitrary in the directions of all diminishing. Getting a hold on is a bourgeois idea. I let it be. Boxes have a way of loosing it, to the controlled chaos of natural harmony, the self. A paradoxical realm of images, a hallway of endless mirrors, where each reflection is a fusion of its surrounding ones. There, the constant gaze is mutable in its varying transformation. With each passing frame the pallet shifts, and I become. A realm where reality is personal. Then I meet the gazes which get fixated, those reflections stay echoing around the occurring new ones. It is where the doubts reign.
A silence before the touch,
A pause, careful as much.
A calm to the delirium.
Entering a state of rested continuum.
It belongs only to me.
In this particular state of being dictations are irrelevant, where manuals do not exist. This ecstatic nature of presence surpasses all reluctant expectations. I am no longer orchestrated. The revelation overwhelms the spine with strength and dimensions, the kinds never seen. I am escaping your collection of structures. The inevitable paradigm shift is happening, the threshold of freedom, for it is to be.