Melting Seasons

Neither sad nor overjoyful is the sustained moment of the raising awareness about disenchantment. Disenchantment is not disappointing. It is liberating. Smells like the promise. Like a jet of spring air brushing away filth from the hairs in the nostrils. Traveling further. Bringing a new contingent of oxygen to thirsty cells. Easy flow. Gently meandering tripartite conglomerate. Grey cells, white cells…Quenching the unquenchable. Showers of freshness. Crystalline river. The river bathing in an eye. The eye which is its wellspring, its flow, its estuaries, its delta. Its sea. The ocean of oxygen. Carbon emission. All the trees of the world united in the cosmic factory of oxygen. Eyes awashed in golden showers. Golden tripartite gaseous streams of rescue.

Neither sadness nor overjoy is what golden showers indicate. They are the channel through which the seepage of narrative imagery is being dissolved.

Crumpling chunks form palm-tree-styling shreds. Palm tree styling shreds weld the roots as the scorching heat fades away. Relics of burning magma emanated from the cracks in barren soil. Leaking out as the fluffy dispersal of clean, refreshingly crisp air is being spread over the lacy white dreamscape.

Snowflakes of our ascending. Ice of our frozen moment amid the world of 33 rpm.

Wassup little one!

Likefuckgranpafuckshit!

What you’ve been doing / hauzyabin!

I had a dream. In my dream I was not me. I was I. i felt that kind of Iness provided me with a sense of certainty, but, at the same time, made me think I was a body with a head shape of a snail. It made my neck slimy. My ears excessively waxed. My thought as rigid and brittle as a snail’s shell.

Get the fuck out of here!

Likegrandpafuckshitfuckshitwhadafuck!

Behave, for fux sake!!!

Likefuckshitfuckshitfuck!

That’s right!

As if all the mucus of my slime infested dreams were irrigating the pavement, as the gentle, slow-mo dispersal is filling the communication channel with ever purifying brightness. As the streams of self-consuming miasma is pouring, a vacuum is being created in the interregnum between the climax of noisy interaction and devising new tools and vehicles for a further exploration of communication.

Wet concrete like a canvas. Reflections of neon snowflakes spread through the night air as the pulse of the city is quietly vibrating in the minds of its denizens on a day off.

Sparkling neon shadows. Kisses of electric starlight. Bliss of the reciprocity of their fade away.

Anybody in need of style cramping here?

Likegrandmafuckshitfuckshitwadafuxake!

Little one, do chill the fuck out!

You, old lady, mean it, ain’t thou! I mean, yo rite on time!

You, respectable gent, do know what’s the best way to say: Get the fuck out of here! Hwat is wrongrite is not of my primary concern!

Now, likegrandmafothers, mind your fucking language as well as your manners for fux sake!

Likefuckshitfuckshitwadafuckshitfuckshit!

That’s right!

I often think about the landscape I somehow know so well. It is always the same site: a steep cliff, heavy waves showering it mercilessly…foam banging against the rock, only to disperse into zillions of insignificant watery sparkles…what was a jet loaded with impurities of big water, now are innumerable, almost invisible droplets…cleansed at the sustained moment of the transformation initiated by the contact with the stone barricade…watery stars against the air backdrop…which soon ceased to be a sheer backdrop, rather fuses with the stellar bodies,  each of them maintaining autonomy, safely distanced from one another, yet strangely united.

When I think of that blissful galaxy, I see a steely sky overarching the conversation between the mainland and the water. The clouds overwhelm it with their unspeakable burden. They act as pillars of the inexpressible narrative fueled by the tears they cannot cry, sustained through their hard-headedly persisting in keeping the secret about the unthinkable sorrow. That’s why they move ever so smoothly across the vast wilderness. If it’s possible to imagine a galactic sand empire, that would be how they feel. That’s why their movements are as light as grains of sand. That’s also how they on those directionless travels meet mild air currents. That’s how their accumulated sadness starts to melt. As the showers of tears are bathing all the needy dryness underneath. Only to start evaporating at the very instant of contact. Moving higher. Reaching peculiar passers by. Crystalline salty stars…drinking the vapor…as the disappearance of the clouds allows for the change of the sky canvas.

As the ray of light is piercing through the thick pathways still charged with the diluted travelers’ remnants, it cuts across the landscape like a fucking laser beam…as if it were saying:

Whadafuck is wrong with everything! Who the fuck put the fake shit where nature should be! Chill the fuck out & clearthefuckup the passageway and whadeva it is that blurs, smears, and screws up the fucking beauty of the dreamscape!

As the light is spreading, I can’t help but think what it all looks like looked at with a different pair of eyes. I am trying to imagine how it would look if I weren’t part of it. I am trying to imagine what it was like before a single creature walked, swam, crawled, flew the earth, above and around it. I am thinking of the way to imagine it without having these thoughts of mine, this body of mine. I wish I was able to see things as if they were not what I see, think, feel. And I can’t.

But, when I tell about this troublesome attempt to someone, I hear part of the answer. The answer doesn’t explain anything. It provides no way of dislocating oneself from the experience one is immersed in. It offers no hint for a picture of it all were it an object of somebody else’s imagining. It  presents one with no possible key to the unsolvable conundrum.

And yet, in some inexplicable, strangely comforting way, it allays the intensity of listlessness one faces trying to imagine the unimaginable, think the unthinkable, see the unseeable, say the unsayable. Such an insight can only tentatively be called so. It has zero epistemological value. And yet, edifying it is. It illuminates nothing. And yet, enlightening it is. It comprises no definition of the beautiful. And yet, there is beauty to it.

Its characteristic clearly is disenchantment. Disenchantment is neither disappointment nor overjoy. It perseveres in its reticence. Indifferent to the attempts to be characterized in any way that divests it of being just what it is. Persistent in inspiring an unstoppable impetus for wondering.