And I Write...

Movement is life. We move from one point to another. Sometimes with an aim and sometimes(eh..) aimlessly. Moving because we want to or because there is no choice. The essence of movement is action. No action can be perfect. Yet perfection is the aim of many if not all. Aim as in theory. Realistically and practically it is love and its permutations that drive the mind and the self to movement. Movement as we know it and as we don't know it..

In my words you may have seen or felt the stress on complements. The twin complements which form the heavenly libran balance, the driver and the driven, want and aversion, love and hate, God and Devil... I see them as the whip of the taskmaster we call life. They get the job done. But what exactly is this "job" is difficult to write for me.

And yes, then there is this life. The life that does not have any certainities, no single and final "truth" as we know it/want it. In the end it is all but a matter of perspective and the want within. The hollow, meaningless, haunting, unfathomable rage the soul feels from time to time due to an incompleteness it cannot comprehend. Pointless! The writing, the thinking; the living... Self-preservation, relativity, laziness and directionlessness are the words that cross the mind. The mind, of course, registers them as old-old words: overused, misused, abused, repeated... And so it goes with the questions that shall remain, I now understand. Here enters the silence (clap-clap-clap!) I try to break with these mute words of mine. As they break free from my pen (figuratively, of course!), I look at them hoping they are not the ghosts I left on some other paper or the ones I read somewhere.. Hoping they will find an end for themselves so as I can go on with a work to occupy the thought that is not there. Yet.

I close my eyes and try to let go of the labels I hold on to. And I write for the pain that nobody would know and the eternity that awaits... For the joy. For love and peace..