THEN SPRING CAME, FOR 5 MINUTES

Photography van Gilles van Winsen

What is happiness and why is it so fickle?
Because happiness is in us, changing color cloak, irradiated heat signal gone cold for the lack of power.

This is the theme song of my day: “The flowers never grew so lush”.
A dynamic melody accompanied by some perfumed scent joins a blazing sun and a few notes of red wine. I have plans, they are not to change the world, I am doing that anyway, if not I wouldn’t be here… but the thermometer of my emotions brings me from being at that garden to wear a straightjacket in a crypt. The right picture would be us, with no right to feel down, populating the springy streets with carcasses, half human half animal, barely just removed from their flesh, just because.

Everybody has their own way, some like it hot, some like it raw, some like it fresh but from time to time everyone has a rotten bite, by private initiative or by cosmical dictation. There is a constant breathing challenge, you cannot tell what is going to come floating and get sucked in all the way to the core. The first symptoms of the infection will be obviated, but there’s no escape. The war is coming from the inside, what an ignorant trojan horse, he is thinking he knows it all. There is a healthy way of walking, a right way to step on the ground can be saved from dozens, and it is only yours, it is real and you are real, even if you aren’t.

Let’s recover the unconsciousness, that is our healthy way of dealing with this we are into, but some of you are so, so far away it makes me break into tears… even that won’t matter in a second. I came here to cry and also to laugh, to pray and with my prayer penetrate thick leather skins. Unknown sanctities may be hidden in this wailing wall, this mortifying blame should arouse us all.

This brings to my memory the first steps I did climbing up the cliff, what do you think? Look at me now, I am much stronger, an amazon, you weren’t in my battle field, that was bad. And back again, I am happy, for everything in particular, for every little lesson gone huge trouble under the effects of a critical crisis of life incompetence. Those memories, scars faded by the passing of time and also by the passing of an intoxicating blast of joy, compose a contradictory map.

This chart tells me to be well whenever I feel bad, to after, come back to my darkness to find a few a more pieces to solve the puzzle. I just went high to fall, after getting numb and useless by an unexpected strong hit of bliss. B_n

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LOCKED UP IN PLACES

Photography by Nour

We like it, the strange pleasure of being sheltered in places that can become jail.
I mean, the seclusion of body or thought that fulfills the percentage of masochism we are recipient of. I am harboring the hope that someday we start breaking the cyclic coming back to self-destruction, a common place we are locked up at, and the only one that we are totally responsible of. Letting a key in can make it nocturnally easy for intruders to access and in the careless exposure to an unknown threat is found a house too.

A house of unconscious joy because of which, at a certain moment, the consequences will be paid with pain. I look at the sky feeling my tininess displeasuring, it reminds me that I am being held by a greater force, by it all, and that I can’t hold almost anything; but that is the feeling which we must learn to live with when we come to the conclusion of the slavery that means to live in society and to carry a brain. And that there is always an explanation to give to someone sometime.

I hate the crowd and most of its consensus, but I live under those precepts too, the cell has a magnificent size, we all own a little plot of it and, when one moves an arm making a gesture, the rest accompanies in canon. Of course I learnt the little that I know me myself by imitation, I went to a place for ages, just like you, the one that is reading these lines now, to be trained on becoming a robot, but there is always some of me that can’t be tamed. I have my own sieve that retains only the few lies that could be useful. It is so difficult to escape from this arena, anything could be done for the show. The audience is our jailer in this case, and we love it.

We don’t have more courage than a barking dog that makes a lot of noise in the night, but puts the head down docilely every morning to eat from the same hand. And, as sometimes we sleep and don’t remember our dreams, that is how the illusion of doing something to break the lock is forgotten. We are not birds that one morning find the cage open by miracle and fly freely, and anyway, if that would the case, we would get burnt, or frozen, or drowned, or suffocated because of fighting an impossible war to win in singular, as we haven’t developed the absolute self-sufficiency skill.

I suspect that the vision of an open door wouldn’t mean necessarily a breakout, so we stay, locked up in artificial cubicles, inherited or created on our own. B_n

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THE AMNESIAC LOVERS

Artwork by Nour

What is it that we can get lost in delusion, creating a whole new world to our convenience? Even the dreams seem so vivid you wouldn’t say reality has stopped, and what is reality anyway? I can touch you in my dreams; I can feel the warm embrace longed for so long in the never ending winter of your disdain, to then, me myself, wake up and think I am somebody else, a stranger to my closer ones.

Because, yes, we respond to randomness, in which we get lost at like non-evolved creatures. The unquestioning loyalty response has its roots in the unleashing of a chemical reaction, and because of that, we move under our personal and untransferable cloud of slavery. I wish I could delete some nets created in a never ending series of inopportune mistakes, I wish every morning would bring me from bed to step on the shore of a virgin island, with no remorse, no guilt, smiling innocent to the ones we offended and the ones that offended us and, definitely, I wish we wouldn’t feel in debt with anybody to avoid hurting susceptibilities and pride.

I have be running along this road for the last years and still look around with the same incredulous eyes, unable to believe I have nobody around that is ready to reformat. I wish we could be amnesiac lovers, the ones that meet each time for the first time, and despite of it, be incapable of erasing the indelible print of the real reason why we met once and keep on doing it again and again and again. The unconscious forces of commitment rest in the unfathomable area that our genetic code holds, that is the reason why they manifest disguised in shape of relationships, marriages, convenience alliances in the disappointing proportion of 99,9% to the insignificant precious 0,01%.

Would you sacrifice a rough natural diamond for the perfect beauty of a synthetic one? That is why I keep this solitude, that is why I forget and forgive, and why I won’t be satisfied with anything or anybody but the best I can get, and that rest in both: a clear transparency, and being able to see through despite of the changing defects that each day brings, depending not so much on how we look like but how we receive what is given. B_n

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STATE OF GRACE

Can you believe that from those particles of dust, that seem to be floating in the ray of light getting through the window, come the muds we are getting rotten at? I believe that that suspended inertia isn’t casual, as casualty itself is a myth. The causal dense solution we get immersed at is a protective shield that, though being invisible to most of the eyes, works its power through the changing body shapes we adopt along millenniums.

I have been a rock, I have been a warrior, a wandering pilgrim, a perennial needle leave swept by the storm, rich, poor, male, female, so have you. And, all that effort has been for nothing? All that energy wasted, like a handful of powder blown by a snooze to the starry Milky Way trying to imitate its magnificence?  It takes more than success and popularity to get up happy each morning; it takes more than one hundred thousand lives of ignorance to get to know that we are a repetitive and easily impressionable biological mistake. And yes, we are getting decomposed; imbecility washes out the streets like a plague.  

I am tired of offering my passionate dance show to the blind, of throwing pearls to the horde of beasts I am surrounded by. Shove me to a pond with some kind of consistency, I don’t care about getting all my bones broken and all of my organs smashed when I reach the bottom, the slightest honesty sign would be enough to, as I am falling down looking at your eyes, give you back some kind of respectful farewell. But, no, the strength of media, laziness and basic instincts destroys the inner one, and so we are, on top of the pole waving like a flag, noisy and proud, but getting ragged too.

A ray of sun, a stream of photons can express all we are, I guess that is why I worshiped that shadow projection of the grille on the wall of the stairs of my childhood, cause all I could see was the light getting free through the bars flooding the hall with an ethereal rage, getting free despite of the difficulties, clear, pure and straight, just like me in this world. I have never been so happy in all my life, I cherish that memory like the most precious and intense feeling of absolute plenitude I have had in this tortuous existence. I am just trying to get back there. B_n

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SPLIT OPEN BEAUTY

You should not be scared of looking at your true self, that image on the dreams’ sphere that is supposed to be scary for others. You are the alive proof that the walking you had to follow wasn’t a sweet one. The stitches, the split open back, showing the entrails of your most precious belonging, that part which is not reachable even for your closest lover, your caring father, your mother giving you that home-loving sensation, none of them, either none of the rest can dive in the beauty of your terrible wounds.

The frozen expression you are holding in front of me holds the experience of improved generations along the centuries. You were dictated an omen, you felt compelled to materialize its details, in the lines of the premonition you can feel complete. There is a violin playing a waltz, you were supposed to be wearing a pompous middle 19th century dress, the same Wagner would have felt proud at you… but you don’t observe that kind of details, there is nothing more important around you that the view you get from that mirror when you turn your head over you shoulder and attend to the performance of a classic tragedy along you spine. You hold strong the faith in all you saw in dreams, you have the deepest believe that it is not further from reality than that changing yourself here represented.

The diving in the objective ugliness is not a nice trip for everyone, there is a need that can only be fulfilled in the sleep's expression, so that is the task you are developing right now, the healing trance, that obligatory phase to go through towards a rebirth, the recovery of a lost innocence, the waiting in the raging sea floating on an egg’s shell, assailed by huge wave crests, on the certainty that everything will pass by and we will be seen with our defects and beyond them. B_n

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