The confuser

I saw you. You caught my eye with your ridiculous impatience. I saw you walking nearby. I  saw you spinning around trees in oblivion, lost in your thoughts, blind and detached. I stared at you. I have been watching you but you never looked back at me. After a while I wasn’t even trying to hide myself because I understood the mute permission you gave me. So I was there, standing and watching the rarity of your vague existence. It seemed like you needed to grasp everything at one go, do whatever it’s possible at once and at the same time. As if your time was running short and your hourglass was getting empty. You wanted to be everywhere and go nowhere. Your goal was to embrace the wholeness of what one can experience and treat as owned. You had your pockets filled with dreams and plans that would never come true and you carried them with you like an invisible burden. Its heaviness kept you stable on the uneven ground. That’s how it was. The possibilities were endless although the superficialness of yours was striking from each and every action you performed. And we have developed the strangest distant relation, unforgettable and elusive.

You smiled at me. I smiled at you.
We were the same.

You said: “Don’t accompany the crowd as they all follow the wrong directions”. So I did as you said. And what I’m left with now? Meaningless, shallow human relations. Conversations leading nowhere with people whose names I don’t even remember now but I surely know they are over-occupied with their own artificially happy worlds. Has it always been like this? I almost don’t remember the times when things were normal, when words carried true meaning, when people shared emotions. But it was you who taught me to stay away from being too emotional, from getting too attached to words and people because sooner or later I would get hurt. It’s better to keep everything hidden safely rather than walk around with a wound in an open heart.

I saw you, there in the park which I pass by on my way to ordinariness. In helplessness you were on you knees. Your dreams spilled out of your pockets. I saw them lying there amongst the leaves. I saw you there, trying to find them, to pick them up, gather and collect. In panic you wanted to regain your dreams as it was a whole universe enchanted in them. They were you identity. They identified you. Your attempts were pointless and your struggle was meaningless. There came the wind and blew the leaves away. I watched them fly and vanish in thin air. So easily can everything get lost. So absurdly can everything perish. I laughed quietly. I stood there watching you kneel on the withered grass and I laughed at your misery.

You said: “Decaying as I am, I need not some promised land”. You taught me an important rule. One shouldn’t carry dreams irresponsibly. One shouldn’t dare to dream. Aren’t we all going to die alone? Isn’t getting accustomed to solitude the best solution to all human related problems? Trivial, trivial, trivial. One mustn’t dream as it just gives false hopes, something for a lifetime to chase with no guarantee of catching. Dreams are just a serious contamination of common sense. I know I’m failing and it is not within my personal collection of advantages to follow the rules. I do dream. The distance between reality and logic remains unmeasurable.

I saw you hanging from a tree, swinging in all directions as the freezing wind stirred your hair. You found my hideout and you violated my secrecy.  I was watching you, directly looking into your motionless eyes. My courage grew as I stood there dressed in patience and appreciation. We were breathing the same air and sharing the same space. But it was you who was wasting both the air and the space. I didn’t want to share any of those. Not with you. I was disappointed by your presence. I was discouraged by your existence. After all you didn’t care. You have never cared about anything except yourself. That was fine for me. I didn’t care either. I have myself to focus on. You passed me your gratitude for my attitude. I passed you my full understanding. We were the same again.

You said: “Tell a lie then intensify all your thoughts of hate to articulate”. So I did as you said. I cheat and I lie on a daily basis. You’ve taught me the survival tricks and the way to stay out of the surrounding evil. I couldn’t resist. I lied. I lied to everybody and about everything that concerned me. I’m a filthy liar. But it feels good. Lies carry an enormous power of creation. Dreaming is lying to ourselves by pretending that our wishes can come true. Lying is creating. There is no such thing as owned identity. We change accordingly to the situation. We put on lies in order to become who we want to be. One shouldn’t ask about personality as it’s an unstable state of one’s mind. We are just silhouettes embroidered with lies with minds impossible to get to know closer. We are all alone in our entangled little universes because of the one obvious fact. The only person you can really talk to, receiving a full understanding in return, is yourself.

I saw you, lost and confused, distracted and distant. You had your palms full of snow and your eyes full of stardust. The warmth of your hands melted the snow, you watched the clear water run down between your fingers. Repeatedly you took a handful of the pure whiteness and followed the drops splash on the ground.  I saw the reflection of myself. Fighting for nothing, waiting for you to see through my disguise.

You said: “Empty hearts bleed as the love recedes”. I’ve always had questions on my mind that needed clarification and explanation. How to determine love? How do we weight it, estimate it, measure it or define it? Does it have a price or value? Once I thought love grows in inverse proportion to distance. Oh how right I was. Love recedes regardless of all. You proved that one can’t determine something that does not exist.  One can’t define something that is so truly inapprehensible. I will reject all I love. I will defy everything that dazes and blurs my mind, all that makes me weak and prone to mistakes. Love is an unnecessary attachment. Love is a blade we keep directed to each other’s hearts. The closer we get to one another, the stronger the blade pierces our hearts. We unwillingly stab each other as we deepen our commitment. It’s a stupid mutual murder. Is living really about loving? Is loving really about living?

Forgiveness.

We don’t love, we are just scared of being alone.

 

* I dedicate all this to myself

The ice skater

 

The mover

So leave me in the cold
Wait until the snow covers me up
So I cannot move
So I’m just embedded in the frost

The stranger

So just in case you’ve changed your mind
You’ve got love if you want it and it can’t go wrong
And just in case you find the time
You’ve got love if you need it and it can’t go wrong

But stranger you’re in danger
Of losing me
Oh stranger you’re in danger
Of losing me

The twister

Lend me your eyes
Cause I’m losing my sight
From all the crooked faces
From all the twisted fate

The deceiver

We are lost above
Floating way up high
If you think you can find a way
You can surely try

Chord change

I owe an explanation to the blog title.

Chord: A group of (typically three or more) notes sounded together, as a basis of harmony. Archaic: The string of a musical instrument.

I have to make a confession. I have an inner structure, something like an instrument built inside of me. I am music. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? Oh, well. Continuing. It’s a construction which keeps me sane, most of the time. We are like instruments and when handled properly we can make the most beautiful music. We flourish and we grow in our own beauty of inner sounds. Simple truths are the strongest. Every sound makes music. We create sounds and we make music. We build melodies with our own insides and our own precious instruments, with who we are. And we are all beautiful in our oddities. Our thoughts, dreams, sorrows, regrets, actions, longings, failures, infatuations, sparks and expectations all contribute to the music making process. We are instruments. We are music.

As mentioned previously I have an inner structure similar to all string instruments. I think of myself as some kind of a guitar. Trivial, isn’t it? Well, seldom the master disappoints (about me). I have my mystical chords inside, the nearly invisible lines of sounds running along my body, playing my inner music, accompanying me, allowing me to be a true instrument. My music preserves my inner harmony so that I can feel complete. Without the constant flow of sounds I wouldn’t be able to love and to stay me. As long as the music keeps playing, it comforts me and maintains my slippery state of imaginary happiness. It’s the safe place I run away to, my serenity, my own way to stay detached from reality, the be indifferent and calm. I am happy in my seclusion. And it satisfies me. And it makes me want to carry on. But. Sometimes, somewhere comes the inevitable moment when things start to go wrong. There is no way to foresee it or avoid it. The music stops playing. The precious instrument you carry inside you gets out of tune and the sounds no longer bring comfort. You seem to be lost in the mindless, shapeless labyrinth of confusion. Everything becomes just an illusion, a projection in front of your eyes that brings you to a point when you’re longer a participant and you’re just terrified of your own fears. Nothing makes sense and the discrepancy is too much to handle. You start to let go.

Just like a guitar loses its magical powers with time, we lose our music. No matter how much you take care of the instrument inside you it can get broken. Discover it. Touch it. Accept it. Feel that this damage really hurts. And let go. Soon you will find a way to repair it, you will figure it out. But the time has to pass and you need to get through this struggle to reach the bottom of yourself, to start the repair from the source. It happened to me some time ago. One of the chords broke. The music stopped playing. And here comes the simple truth again. It’s said that we all carry a tragedy inside. I have carried mine for quite a long time now until I realized that I can no longer endure such state. I was dissolving in the omnipresent chaos. At that moment the decision had been made and I ran away. Far away. I wander and I observe trying to rebuild the chord from bits and pieces I experience, find around and explore inside of me. I tend to succeed but the progress is slow and gradual. It requires turning back to the foundations, scattering all the lies and seeing through the current disguise I wear to hide the tragedy, in order to return to who I was when the music still played.

If I was able to choose an instrument I would have ever wanted to be, well, the choice is pretty clear. I would have been the Gibson Flying V played by Andy Powell especially during WA’s concert in Köln in 1976. The dubious privilege of being born was given to me many years later. But I saw this concert and it was a breakthrough. The way he played, the way the music spread from under his fingers made the stars in my entangled little universe stop shinning for a while. I would have been the distance between his fingers and the gently touched string. I would have been the vibration of each and every played chord. I wasn’t aware that such beauty existed. Remaining in the total darkness I embraced the entity of the invisible. I solved the riddle. Andy, your music brought an irreversible change and a whole new breeze of air which I breathe continuously. It was like an unfinished dream floating between reality, unconsciousness and the first ray of daylight. Whatever I write here is not enough because words don’t carry enough descriptive power and true meaning. If I was ever given the chance to choose another source of music I would have become Martin Turner’s voice during The queen of the underworld. I would have been the breath between each line of the lyrics sang so passionately. This masterpiece still makes my eyes blurry, my body weak, and my ears hyper sensitive to each note he sang. I surrendered totally to the utter beauty of the performed music and this made me realize how much love is still out there waiting to be discovered.

Andy, if you’re ever going to read this, please know that on that day your music defined the word perfection. It was an honour to stand in front of you 38 years later and experience the music in full enchantment.

I am Stella. I am helpless in my surrender but I’m fighting to be free. This is the change of my chord. Every second modifies a lifetime. Seconds pass, one after another, and nothing will ever be the same again. Not even a word more can be written so the magic can last forever.

The water

At the bottom of the ocean she dwells
At the bottom of the ocean she dwells
From crevices caressed by fingers
And fat blue serpent swells

Stella          Stella          oh Stella

Stella I love you          Stella I love you          Stella I love you

Far above the forest

Let me take you to a forest, the gathering of trees standing still in modest silence. A forest where the sun doesn’t dare to shine through the leaves and branches. The autumn forest is magical. It hypnotizes and it tempts to just lie down, cover with leaves and fall asleep, forever.

There is something unusual in forests. Maybe it’s like that just for me. Yes, I tend to exaggerate things and the surroundings. Yes, I usually want to see deeper, see more than just the boring surface. I want to see above and below the one-dimensional top layer. It seems that nowadays everything is so superficial, shallow and trivial. Nobody asks questions anymore, nobody doubts, nobody looks inside things in order to see the inner values and qualities. I don’t usually want to generalize my statements by writing everybody or nobody. But this is how I feel. This is my opinion. I’m not special or better than any other, but I doubt and I question life just because the surface I see is not enough. There is always more, things aren’t what they seem. Again, prove me wrong. I’m able to change my mind. But it’s not that simple and at this very moment I am not convinced. I will take the risk of continuing this thought with generalization.

Everybody takes things as they appear to be. They set all their concentration on now. They don’t have doubts or deeper and complex consideration. I don’t really care if the reason is the lack of time, money, love, comfort and so on. We all can think and dream. We are equipped with powerful imagination and we just need to feed it with ideas to let it grow. And our fantasy is endless. For it is not what you see that matters most. That’s what you think you see. There is too much beauty in life to just let it pass unnoticed. But it’s not the beauty you can see at the first sight. You have to stop for a while and just look deeper, try to find the inside of things and people, the impressions, the intentions and the unsaid thoughts, the whispers and the mute stares. That’s where the beauty happens. Between the silent breaths separating the words, between the murmurs of the last autumn leaves left on the trees and the loud sound of the bird jumping on the wooden bench on the top of the hill, between the morning fog and the first beams of sun, between the constant hum of the waterfall and the cracks of the wooden stairs, between the glance and staring and between the drizzle falling down on the moss and the sound of shoes flopping in the mud. Living is a lot more than just surviving. Right now I’m stuck between two conceptions. Well, probably it’s one that emerges from the other. It doesn’t really make sense as I tend to contradict my own words, but here it is. There must be a meaning it the whole meaninglessness of life. In other words. There is no meaning in the whole insignificance of life.

We are all chasing what’s already behind us.

Returning to the subject. Forests are magical during autumn. Oh well, I guess I’ve lost my point by now.

So the journey continues.

The sunset runaway

Watching sunsets is somehow a little silly as the sun never really sets for good. Just imagine a continuous journey, a never ending travel, a permanent run away. Do we also hurry to leave everything behind? Do we run away? What are we trying to forget or remember? We are chasing our own pasts. As soon as we think about something, the thought has become a part of the endless line of memories, which soon will be forgotten. We are living our pasts, we are what already has happened. We are built of memories and forgotten thoughts. We are the past. We are the cause. Every minute spent on writing this, slips inevitably in order to disappear. Our thoughts are faster than our lives and they stay with us as long as we keep them alive. Our memories are just some random time captures, unsorted and disorganized, floating in our minds, bringing feelings, changing the truth. We do run away from the past. All of us have some memories that we want to forget, but somehow we can’t. We make mistakes, we say irrelevant words, we unintentionally offend ourselves, we hurt and we get hurt, we are happy and we regret. Most of all we want some moments to stay with us, we want to cherish them and enjoy every second repeatedly. It’s like we want the time to stop for a while so we can dissolve into the present. We crave for indulgence. I catch myself on twisting my own memories. I adjust and transform them, so they fit into my own entangled little world. I match them with my own notion even so I fail each time I strive. Everything can be forgotten and everything can be remembered. I find myself regretting that I hadn’t said or done what in fact I intended to. But it’s too late when I realize it, and things could have been different. The decisions that I hadn’t made could have changed everything. But they did not and things cannot be reversed.

We can’t change the past likewise we can’t catch the sunset. There will always be somebody experiencing it in one’s own present.

Trivial, trivial, trivial… but true.

And I still watch the sunsets. How stupid of me.

So the journey continues.