Little Fish

7th September 2010

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We Are Fragile

How better to say ‘we are fragile’?

Such simple words with the simple taste of bread,

Don’t look for the poem,

It will come,

Under the tongue,

With your soul,

Simply live the odour of these words,

A simple soup and two roses,

Somber as they might be,

Will bring tomorrow,

In silence,

And what will we all think of yesterday?

And what will we say of our fragility?

3rd September 2010

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Are You Aware Of This Glorious Day? (My bed, my thoughts, my pleasure)

My Thoughts Are. My Pleasure.

It’s never too late or too early to learn something. Here is something that I want to write about, to tell you about my life, the way that it is, to remind you of yours, that you don’t always really live, even when there is light in the day. “Are you awake?” I say. “Are you aware of this glorious day?” And so I wake up late. Today. Once again. I try to wake myself up. I tear away the sleep from my eyes. Most times when I wake, I am unaware, just absorbing the gentle light seeping in through the gap in the curtains. Absorbing the heat or even the cold leaving my feet to be tickled by the humidity. Should I rejoice to be alive and wake? For being my age? ‘Paradise might well please me more’ I think to myself. How important are my eyes to be open? Maybe I should transform myself into a living tree that gives leaves, flowers and carries fruit?

I recognise myself for what I am and for the things that I hate. My actions ricochet. I never cease to be surprised by the day, constantly satisfying those little desires of nothing – the simple sensation of existing is all. How sweet is my dream. How simple. How I laugh. In bed. Out loud. At my simple thoughts.

My simple thoughts are my richness. No bank will ever take strip me of this richness as my thoughts are my pleasure. My Pleasure. To sleep or to rest. But whatever. I like to wake up late. And stay. In bed. My thoughts are. My. Pleasure.

Tagged: juju rambles writing

2nd September 2010

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Blue Is Not The Colour Of Hope (stay free)

Blue is not the colour of hope. Bam. I fire a shot against the blue sky. The birds are falling from the sky. They have but one wing and are grey. Sometimes, around the cathedral dead people lie. They are more than one hundred years old. At least they can sleep away the pain. Why was that man nailed to the cross? I saw him on the door last night when I went. To. Sit. Alone. I confess. Right at the entrance. I love the blue sky but today I hate it. Keep firing that gun towards the sky and let me take me myself there. I’ll carry my clothes and my shoes. I will be cured. I will also be buried there. Can anyone else see the birds flying around us? They only have one wing and are falling. Dipping their beaks into the open sea. Do you understand me? Stay. Free.

31st August 2010

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Offer me an opportunity to live.

My time is not without worth for I am able to ask myself if the way life works could not have been better, because I know that it is when I ask myself this, that the world, whatever way I want it to be, is not worse today than it could have been. The road to heaven is obstructed by the road to the big Western world. Everything, all the efforts of our nation tilts, not towards the sky above us but to the West, to California, to Japan. This does not interest me: whether I walk the road or swim the Pacific Ocean. None of these thoughts of mine are animated and neither are they warmed by a feeling. Destiny. Follow your destiny for this is not mine. I am sure. When I have my dollars I will go in the other direction. I see people on the Western road, but no music lifts itself from this road, only the tinker of coins rattling around in their pockets. I’ll be the cavalier and watch them as they pass rather than go there, where they are told to go. What are they to do once they have conquered LA? Where are they to go then?

Me. I have all the stars that I want. They look over me. They were then when I was born. Nothing has changed since. I was only born once. And now, whether it rains, or whether it snows, whether I laugh or whether I cry, whether I fall even lower or whether I get closer to my ideal, no new light shines for me. Sometimes, there is a new horizon, a new dawn, sometimes it comes a surprise and is eternal; it wakes itself for me, coinciding with the day.

My opinion may well change as the years go by, but I’d like to think that these thoughts are those that will preserve my soul from rotting. I have no instruction for you, only a method that I myself follow. Sometimes I profess against all these thoughts and in a fever will proclaim to be the world that I condemn. But I know, with age, that we are who we are. I have learned myself. I am learning.

It is wrong to devout ourselves to doing good, instead we should be weary of our lives, to which all of us should sacrifice. To do good in the body of a dead man instead of being in the body of man living and full of life is wrong. To have good taste and refresh humanity within the measures of our capacity and of our qualities. This is what we are.

The question of life should be not only to essentially conquer the life of our body but with that same discipline to conquer the life of our spirit. If what I conquer in my spiritual life is counted as a richness in the ‘real’ world, I am then also worthy. I am worth the same as I was before, and nothing more. I realise this, as far as I am concerned, that money might well be very useful, but indeed won’t be because the difficulty has always been that I cannot profit from circumstance, and I am not prepared for my luck to augment. And my luck will only augment through happiness, that for which one does not need money. Attach yourself to your dreams waking inside. Are we to think that our dreams are only dust and ashes? That they are degraded thoughts? No. Thoughts assemble through music. Melodies that start to organise themselves. These hopes are the roots or the nuggets that even the most indignant of men possess, whether he fries or bites time, that even the poorest are indebted to keep. Men go to the opera and listen to music because they hear the sounds of echoes of words that are nearly never uttered. If you look for another star in the sky, we are so close to be nothing or something, we are simply people of thought looking for an opportunity to live our life.

Tagged: random writing Juju