Hoist The Sails!

Hoist! Hoist the sails!

Landmarks over the ocean’s heart

We’re approaching the oasis, Hoist the sails!

This is the part where we lend masks

Hide! Hide your hearts; toss them in the watery mazes

We’re approaching the oasis.

Hoist the sails!

From our zones of comfort we depart

This is where the sea ghost grazes

Embraces the end of the southern air

And relishes the start of the northern breeze

Hoist! Here skies freeze and clouds are devised

With ease, please hide your face

Replace your heart with vacant space,

To let your spirit float freely over this sacred whirlpool

Pull the ropes towards the floor

Push your robes outwards your flaws

Let the ocean see and drown them

Hoist the Sails we’re approaching the oasis

Find a place to hide

Send the anchor below to the forgotten sands

Root this ship, this was once a tree

A wise tree with dreams, Hoist the sails and cease

Seize the moment and dive in, but not in this divine sea

Find a place to hide please,

The captain speaks;

Forget what think you are,

You’re one with the stars

The sky is a reflection of the earth

The stars multiply with the rate of birth

Everyday children are born and at night new stars are borne

They’re not that far, through your eyes in the ocean and see

You will see horses, lions and shells, octopuses and Krishna

You also are there,

Hoist the sails

We’re approaching the oasis

Let us reconnect the constellations

Converse with the universe because we’re all stars

Hoist the sails; forget what you think you are

I’m the captain; and you’re the Star!

Simply the way you are.

The best place to hide is inside you.

"PEACE"

Clouds shift. A fluorescent void pierces the horizon

Cosmos undressed. A door frame of flames, stars adrift

Invisible force uplifts ozone and the hidden layers

A lucent fabric of the sky-less space reveals heaven secrets;

What seems like the sun appears

Others believed, but others said it’s a myth

A divine scam, He will not return, death is nothing else

But the absence of presence, he also was human, now absent

Blooming from the cold soil; a thick smoke of astonishment

Awe-inspiring sudden developments, nourishment of surprises

The earth shakes, empty space quakes

All dressed in white; who are they?

Armed with mysterious weapons on their hands

What are they?

Others holding active lightning;

Storms that eradicated the first earth

Others with tornadoes in their pockets

Hurricane Catharina and her single breasted sisters

The tall ones had many world wars

Clinched in their gigantic fists

Their little girls had hunger and drought

Sawn as ornaments to their short skirts

Short however equivalent to two centuries in this dimension

Their four eyed and three headed children

Playing touch with chronic diseases

An elderly female with reflections of a full decade eclipse in her one eye

If she blinks, the sun will go crescent for ten years

Her arms swinging, oblivion glittering in her hands;

A basket full of used hearts and a fluid of lethal thoughts

And other mass destruction herbs

Others had nightmares tattooed on their eyeballs  

Dreams handing on their necks, glowing as sunset

It is believed that if those dreams touch your head

You will never find your way back to this reality

They are the seeds of madness!

Ferociously walking towards me; they march

With a meticulous order, parallel universes are skew

The first row: Over two hundred years experienced wizards

The second: Retired angels, now knotted their halos around their tongues 

Afraid that they might reveal heaven’s weaknesses to us

They are followed by gods that were never spoken of

And whose stories were never published in all the mythologies

They levitated before women with barren stomachs

But with the possibility of begetting dinosaurs with human ears, if they try

Many indescribable and too awful for words, beings followed  

With details not even time can withstand to hear

Enveloped in fear, I asked “All dressed in white, who are you?”

“Are you here to destroy earth? Are you here to kill my mother and my unborn daughter?”

“Please Sir; tell them to take me instead”

My hopelessness and fear are not a good team

So ridiculously, I asked one of them

“Please sir!”

With eyes the size of the moon, he looked at me

I tried decoding symbols of mercy in his eyes, but none

A colossal voice that echoed in the walls of a hundred years from now

And in the past, escaped his mouth;

In a rough accent sounding like a fusion of the devil and language

“Kid you’re not special, and so is matter.

You terrestrials think you’re special don’t you?”

The voice drawn back to his metallic lungs

Silence and all birds are dead

“Sir are you here to destroy or help us?”

“Look kid, what’s your name?”

“Kagiso” said with inferiority and fear

“What’s that?”

“Kagiso; it is to say Peace...Sir”

“Precisely!” He exclaimed

“You see kid, oh Peace. This world needs you...”

Before he could even continue

I jumped into his mouth and said;

“I’m a boy. A wretch! I have nothing! The smart kids don’t know me”

“You’re a Poet, Peace, are you not?”

“...well, yes Sir I am”

“Precisely!”

“But Sir...”

“Peace gather your brothers and sisters

Go clean up the mess, see what you are and BE!”

“Sir, my brother is only 16 and my sister is just too little”

“No Peace, those are the same products from the same factory as you.

I mean the Poets, tell them to do their job, you guys need to work.

Listen, water is liquid! And it never hesitates or doubts that!

All things end and that’s a fact. Sugar never denies to be sweets,

The sun is up the sky every single day, no night is without stars, never mind the overcast

If you’re a dancer you must dance! If you’re singer you have no other purpose now sing!

If you’re an actor go ahead and act! Play, play everyone even yourself just play!

Teachers should teach! Preachers should preach!

Writers have no other mission on this earth but just that! Go ahead and write!

Write yourself into a new world and back to this one!

Write! Till all the wrongs of this reality get write! Go on and write!

Poets please recite! That’s your only purpose in this life,

Abandon your tongues, weave dreams, speak magic, please recite!

Recite till language dies, recite till your voice breaks and pick up the pieces to create existence anew!

Please recite! Recite to the wind! Recite to the dishes! Recite to your imperfect reflection on the mirror till it cracks, opens crevices on your glass skin and recite your soul to the atmosphere

Recite! Write! Recite to your mother. Poet please recites to your deaf uncle; don’t stop till his numb foot starts tapping! His ears should turn red and start making sense of your passion, recite!

See what you are and be, Go and be, Peace.”

“THE WORLD NEEDS POETRY NOW MORE THAN EVER...PEACE!”

THE FURNISHED ROAD

From deep sleep at the tip of the Universe’s hip where gods keep their feet fluorescent and leap in the marvel Dreams of their creation, sounds creep and reap sleep out my ear, I listen, they speak: “wake up, there is no night in time, light just moves in space, walk with us, as always we shall follow the light and watch over their sleeping thoughts, alter certain paradigms and do touch-ups there and there to influence their decisions in advance, enlighten them” they are the manufacturers of dreams. Amidst the crucifying shock shattering every wall of my ego, one of them whispered what seemed to have been like a wind propelling friction with still flames within the sun to help blow heat to this earth, the voice said: to nomads; time does not matter, only space does. Now let us displace, evacuate this place, we’ve got dreams to chase…Walk with us…

When others sent their spirits to walk forth and open path for their bodies to follow, others had their heads beneath their knees in the quest of fortune, they left no stone unturned, attention to detail I thought, I later however learned that; they left no stone unturned for they failed to move rocks. We all walked through the gallery of dreams, a road that seemed to have been constructed just when our feet touched the ground and destroyed once the same feet move from the ground to the next step. The road was like a world of its own, a vertical world, where all are queued for same experiences and thus no one can be different from the next, only time makes them feel better because they went first or even bitter because the weren’t first, followed steps of the ones before therefore made them the worst of all that could have happened and somehow faded, maybe because it was not meant to last. We walked through the passages of collective imaginations of the sleeping minds; some images had colours unfamiliar to human eyes, lines of dots no map reader can plot, special effects no filters can distort, pass comprehension to concepts beyond mortal thought, I thought, these are the worlds transcended to by spirits of philosophers and mystics we have left far in history, why did we think we had left them when they form part of what we think and believe?

The road was furnished with too many stories of what is to happen and strange to the eye was the sudden emergence of ideas on pages written in a language I could not understand, but I could tell they were a rough draft of what the architects of the Universe were guided by, before the times explosives were planted in gigantic non-practical books and the big bang theory materialized.  I saw, not just the tress but generations of humans still serving their ten thousand years of solitude as stems that form a sacred forest where Dreams are sawn, and reality scenes are born. I saw not just holy ghosts of the past but mysterious beings who eat their heads off, so they could taste their thoughts, knowing not that; mind resides not in the head but all around, they went ahead and buried their hopes of basking in the elysian ambience of paradise with ghostly desires so they played dead, Dreams played binoculars casting midget spells on the distance so they could cut short their journey and catch their destination off-guard.

And then it hit me, there is no death in Dreams, Dreams rather scarifies themselves to limbo for us to wake up and live, up the road when I gazed were the 12 apostles rejoicing as children who had just discovered the reverse reaction of oceans to clouds, the apostles were rapidly tuning rocks into bread, water into wine, they drank and unwind, back at it again, with cruelty they turned all the world’s bread into rocks, the famished apocalypse, starvation took the place of reality, with the abuse of faith and prayer magic came to be, and suddenly it occurred to me; Faith is the bridge between me and the divine, there is no way I can access Nirvana if there is no link between my soul and hers. The furnished road ceased not with its miracles, the elders lead me into a garden of souls where our sorrows are used to nurture the soil and our tears irrigate their roots, we suffer to better the lives of those to be born from are waists, the message I deciphered from what I saw.

"The Spirits have created a world of illusions for you. What you see is merely a physical manifestation of your thoughts, past thoughts; those few that went unobsereved are mothers to déjà vu, and those of you who Dream with open minds: manufacture your realities in advance. Yes; do not sleep and Dream, Dream your way to a beautiful sleep."

entranced in a vortex dance of enchantment they all recited, I knew then that; it is not always about the destination but more about the experience through the journey. Moreover; not every experience has a lesson, sometimes it is just about the experience itself.

THERE IS LIFE ELSEWHERE

There is life elsewhere
Spaces in the Universe we can never perceive
Right there, the air is clear, or not even there
Talents unexplored and gifts we can never receive
Dry seas, liquid mountains, square clouds, reined by gods we can't deceive
All year, weather's constant, whether or not, life there is fair
Fear is a nightmare dreamt by inhabitants of a world they've never seen
Blur is the line between him and her
Eyes stair the night sky with flair, stars are massive
Prison bars are passive, no one's there
Cursive scribbles speak of active trees that bear
Divinity and care that Angels wear
Branches composed of songs that only pure souls can hear
Dreams that hidden gods share, sheer beams that lights retrieve
Believe; yes believe, that's the imperative step before the practice of faith,
They know that, God is a fact, no soul doubts that, or questions that
Yes believe! There is life elsewhere!
Spaces in the Universe we can't perceive

New colours exist, unknown shapes are there
Amorphous canvases painted with glare
Collages of time; future and history are concurrent
New philosophies and novel artists
Congruent dichotomies, single dualities and same differences
Never identified sound of voices, never classified sort of choices
Past body language to spirit jargons, imagination is before photography
Last holy carnage to new unborn saints healing wounded angels in advance
Meditation morphs mere mortals to paragons
Paradigms unnoticeably agitate word temperature
Conversations are heated, witness the speech bubbles
Troubles are tales of a life imagined by the weak
No dream, no reality, all is as it is, any other idea is oblique
There is just space and nothing else, shut your mind and connect to the unseen
Your belief system is a link
Yes believe, there is life elsewhere
Spaces in the Universe we can never perceive

Horizons hold twenty four doors to realms of miracles
Gaze at skies and see cross temples of the new chronicles
Thousands fold laws to govern hopes of lost popes
No one being is above the other, No mother or father
Only daughters and sons shining promises of a bright tomorrow to forgotten yesterdays
What we see as miracles have deployed frequent occurrences
As the syllables of amen on the tongue of a praying mantis
What bonds the son and the daughter in essence is incense smoke
Sons smoke and daughters make love to the dancing smoke
The dancing incense smoke caring hypnotic movements in its stride
Arms stretched behind the flat surface of the wind to protect its dreams from fading with time
Miraculous beings with cold feet caughing infinite riches from their treasure chests
Pleasure best suits fire blazers; appareled in flames sisters of phoenix they're perpetually hot
Wisdom promised to the brothers by the empty pages of doctrines and blind masters
They will alter shapes, align colours, balance numerals, their minds play rubrics’ queue with the walls of the Universe to show us spaces we could never perceive, provided we believe
Yes believe, there is life elsewhere
Spaces in the Universe we can never perceive

LUCID DREAMS

In the nihility of I, self swiftly swings in the  corridors of their lucid dreams

In the obscuriry of an eye, self quickly shrinks in their  perception of my fading themes

In the narrow aisle of their imagination I am formed only as part of their dreams

I enter dreams, it is then that I become

I dont have a body of my own, 

so in enigma's tears how will I be calm?

I watch as my impermanent footprints fade as I move into my next clone

This palm lines only a reality I can never experience with fantasies I carry in my bone

My bone molded  by an empty sound of a bright tone 

heard only when sleep aprroaches an end and dreams escape a dreamer's head

To unseen scapes I fade when they wake up. 

With a great deal of suffering being the only thing I can spread

as compassionate butter on my fast braking bread, 

they wake up before I could even digetst what I swallowed

Hollowed is my chest as my heart transforms to a spirit they percive as a mare to their dreams.

Intering dreams-

Gastrique's dreams:  

I stand firm and listen as darkness paints these words

"Regain your losses, what you lost of course"

I am architectured to a digital fortress with no flaws

A magician with one mighty hand giving to the hidden gods a round of applause

Up floors of uncontable stairs before his eyes I evolve

and then pause and hear a name clipping on my identity without force

I become The Symbologist and read deaf man's signs and calculate the scores

I add reading esoteric scribbles to my daily chores

From the eyes of my environment I disappear, 

welcomed to the underworld by 1696 spirits of a hidden firmament 

I become a secret away from my society's claws

My brain is now an archive of the 7 universal laws

Visible voices reffer to me as Proffesor Robert Langdon but I act blind to their sounds

and then later realise it was only one voice from the dream crafted passages of his honour that sees great in the wretch I am

Now I'm speaking tongues of my mind to the audience, not knowing that his night is dying into a new day 

and I'm about to dissolve soon and meet emptiness as my gloom. 

He sees light and enunciates "God made mistakes that man was destined to plot, he failed". I fade.

I enter dreams-

My little sister's dreams:

I appear in the third day of her dreaming, the thirdteenth dream she's having

Her infant body posture oders my sinful arms to pick her up, I'm a brother now

she starres at my flat head and creates a strange hair style with wisdom strands hanging towards my neck 

I fall back to her eleventh dream; she is one year old, her eyes are shining with radiant beams of gratitude

as I stretch my arm to offer her my soul candy and ask her to forget about my hair 

I teach her how to say hello, I hear her braking it down to two portions so to accomodate her infant tongue

She first says hell and then says awe, she is mostly stuck on the hell part

being impetiant as she is, she wrapps silence over my mouth with an ineffeble awe 

later gets tired of that and decides to jump into a dream with my little brother and not me

I once again fade...

In the nihility of I, self swiftly swings in the corridors of their lucid dreams

In the obscuriry of an eye, self quickly shrinks in their perception of my themes

In the narrow aisle of their imagination I am formed only as part of their dreams

I enter dreams-

Wordbender's dreams:

The room is clear of any distructions, I toss a question so I could Join him

"What are you doing" the air gets dim, "I am listening to my fan" his response brushes the air to gleam 

"Count me in" I conjure my long abandoned smiles and join in because I can

I'm a man in the position of a writer fighting with my father using biblical scriptures as fatal weapons

Raptures of unseen fractal caldrons boil my thoughts, I'm writing my retaliation

It's Trojan war. Bender hears me say "Gospel is Goth" and he likes it.

Now we share the same spirit, exchange digits, the bond gets instatly solid and we can't believe it

We both escape the fixed numbers of our families and become brothers

We are siblings, synonymously traveling the psychopath and semulteniously see all these miriculous things

I step in a room and detect residues of negative energies,

It is a second layer of his dream

My father wants me to quit art and become a scientist

He says I'm unconsciously losing my intellectual abilities

Now the dream turns to a mare, Bender kicks sleep out of his mind 

but he doesn't realize that he's still in a dream and all that was just a poetic freestyle  

The story of candy is born so I can't stay in his dream due to the lack of space

I am replaced by a poem in his head, he awakes to jot it down and I fade

I enter dreams-

Paulo Coelho's dreams:

He doens't know my name and doesn't even make an effort to give me one

I follow Santiago through his pilgrimage and burn my unreal hands trying to transform lead

I see my self as the other within the other, a distruction to self

I'm an annoying sound in the second mind, so I learn channeling and how to see my angel

but he cannot dream me to that far because there are certain charpters I misread

However I'm glad he has now found a name for me, He calls me Reader and I'm satisfied with that

He has a lot to dream about so it doesn't matter how many books I've read with his name on, he's got to dream on

He promises to return the day I turn lead into into gold, but I tell I'm just a reader and that's perfect with me

His dream is now shut, I rotate in limbo. I'm no where.

In the nihility of I, self swiftly swings in the corridors of their lucid dreams

In the obscuriry of an eye, self quickly shrinks in their perception of my themes

In the narrow aisle of their imagination I am formed only as part of their dreams

entering dreams-

Mutle's dreams:

I gain motion as he advances to a statue ornamenting my pilgrimage. the statue speaks;

"Please help me find a potion to make me smart enough to fit through the cracks in the walls"

I'm walking towards my self in the approaching ages,

My under-developed mind cannot hadle these images,

Massages from his creations can only be deciphered by retarded sages

Stages of insanity are growing less as I listen to inaudible hyms from above streams of a watery heaven

Having cautiously collected all I could from the definitions in the magazine of the blind

I build my self a novel haven

Clocks hit seven, it's time for him to get deep, now his about to sleep, I realize that I had not been in his dream

I hold the hadle of the door opening to his dream abode, the handle is hot, I cannot handle it

Open the door Phoenix! 

I finally lose my right hand to flames, The room grows and I shrink, his dreams get bigger and I'm getting smaller

I decide to voluntarily jump out of his dream and find something my one left hand can hold.

I have no body of my own 

So I now search for someone that can embody my soul

The All: Saint Of The Silent Gods

I sneak into the garden of her dreams since the scarecrow is not looking

Plant a seed that will intertwine my near destiny with hers

I'm empty of all my knowladge because I appear always in the fullness of her moon

Its an astrological conspiracy, I'm locked in the 28th planet of her universe

I ask her out.She tells me my mind is too limited for her reality

So there's no greater reality for me than this dream, we can't go out

Lets spend our time inside. "why take me out when you can keep me intact in the roots of your soul?

To that idea I'm now sold, days unfold I die out of myself and reborn inside her

We are an Epic of the gods, stories untold. We can only be seen with an open heart.

I stand bold and feel immortal, no ocean is too deep to drown my soul, I can swallow it whole.

I am The All.

Being the all means I'm everything, the roof and its flaws,

I mess her dream up and rudely she dreams me out of her head and I'm gone

down to her heart and soul.

I appear in the next dream just to tell her that

If what we have isn't love, then love does not exist.

Emptiness takes its place

And like scars on palms I fade within the lines

The audible scents of the new day are crawling with the soft knees of light rays towards my face

I also wake up from their dreams and realize that I've been living my life based on what my environment percives of me

It is time to wake up and wrap awareness around my head with self-knowladge as my pillow 

So I could voluntarilly sleep and dream my life anew...

PERSPECTIVE_SHIFT-VISUAL

SOMETHING HAPPENS WHEN WE SPEAK

WRITING FOR THE GOD SAKE OF WRITING

It is the epoch of bleeding mirrors

Reflections of their children appear with leeching auras

Hours rush out of days as though time is dying

And space is fading in the approaching audible necro odors

Infinity is drawn near, cloaked in robes of darkness carelessly piercing the sun with a gloomy sword of hatred to foray the speed of light, rushing with winds of agony to blow off flames marking illumination in their sages, oracles go blind, fortune tellers are mute so they’ve nothing to tell us, with injured legs they limp out of luck, the chief is taking orders

From illusive voices, deciphering unseen omens, he doesn’t know who to trust

Death is back to retrieve what was loaned to them by birth

They descended from the bedeviled messiahs, their forefathers

Now it is time to recolour their blood, they should swallow the rainbow and repaint their insights, they should repent!    

It is the epoch of bleeding mirrors

The stonyhearted suffering to passionate live performers…

Beneath the tall ring marked tree the hierarchy of elders formed a circle and tried angles with different shapes, in the quest of rounding off a perfect diagram for their forth coming redeemer. They sat and outlined the distinctive features that would determine their messiah. All haphazardly shouting out their arguments and reasons thereof: 

  “He with firearms, dynamite fingers and hand grenades for gestures that will blow the audience away”

“I say he with a metallic voice to still attention we he speaks”

“And I say he with motion in his soul to move his audience” 

“Let him possess a cashier’s passion to speak and leave the audience with change”…they went on and on with their demands hoping that no one begets a child of that kind, but to their astonishment, a soul was retrenched beyond the palisades of forever and their reminisces embodied this soul, a messiah was born. He with the spine of copper and eyes of switches, his bulb mind would get ideas every time he sees light. The bulb would light and he would get ideas of a new set to charge momentum into his audience and move their hearts whenever he performs. But he had a mission to complete; his birth was an insult to the elders, thus leaving him with no choice but to pay for the disgrace, it is the most rational thing to do, to justify his birth. 

Trespassed the high gates enclosing the fortress of unseen bricks, pillars of nothingness holding up the void that was meant to roof this shelter, like an orphaned serpent he sneaked in through the cracks of the absent  door, entered the house painted with colours of invisibility. There lived a man, a tellurian with a soul that has never touched the ground, a man that had defined his existence as a solid nihility, a man who loathed the world and constructed a neon asylum in his head; in times of suffering he would hide in the maize passages of his mind…his mind...his mind…

His lucent psyche, the prism to light; he would slice one beam into seven coloured light rays to elucidate those around him and paint radiance into their minds, but to his sad reality they did not exist. So he would sit, suspended on that rocking chair moving to the future and the past concurrently, morphing nights to days and days to nights as the chair rocks back and forth, with his thin eyes rooted in the dead stem of an old wise tree, now killed to serve a page’s purpose. He sits there silently hugged by the compassionate arms of solitude, scribbling shape to his earth, scribbling matter into his space, he would sit there as God before the seventh day, and he would create. The ungoverned hand swiftly moving with fingers clutching the pen as a shovel over cemetery soil; he would create a portal away from this life to his death and find refuge in the images drawn by his afterlife thoughts. Father to his hermit nation he would merge ages and weave images of euphoric tomorrows with the beards of the sage he is in his imagination. It is only through writing he could smell life from songs of birds decorating the horizon with melodies of hope, hope for the sultry summer rains to purify earth with joy tears from angels that have witnessed her aphrodisiac bosoms during her wet seasons, though time was still frozen in the breezy winter breathes, he would see the rain moving from earth to heaven carrying prayers of the aqua worshipers, they say waters heals, dipping their heads in rivers hoping to wash off impure thoughts from their minds, all these were the vacant tales carried by his writings, the imaginative fiction that crafted a novel universe for him, where life’s sufferings are only God’s times of having fun with his servants and nothing really worth moaning, a universe were death is accepted as part of life and not used to install fear into people indulging in their hearts desires. He would write himself out of reality and realize that his dreams are also a reality only condemned by those who have mares for dreams.  

From a distant land the warrior came, having kissed his flawless elbows and promised sacrilegious phrases to his God, the lives of the village children rested on his palms, the future kings and queens with cloud characteristics to reign supreme in his land in the approaching equinoxes, the perpetuation of his people was the reason he was born, his mission to complete. Yes many follow Moses day in day out in the quest for ceramic tablets with a list of purposes to give meaning to their lives, but he’s out shined crystal by far, it was as clear as the photographs of oxygen on an A0 canvas. He had been born to the land of movers, the land that prays in tongues of body language, where silence is appreciated long as motion is shouting leisure to open eyes. 

A nation devoted to actions and oblivious to the meaning behind the acts, Mission statement: “We have been empty tins, shouting our foolishness to the gods in times of sense and silence; we resorted to this empty dance and lost all sense. Now you, you have been chosen to go loot sense out of scribbles of the madman. Your mission is to bring back sense to our nation” commanded the village totems, pointing the messiah 

He stands there in the emptiness of the writer’s residence; the house decorated with empty spaces that were believed to be shelves of his archive, he stands firmly with his fluorescent warrior ego glowing with fury and passion in the aisle of this mad house. From the depths of his glowing spirit he shouted “I am a warrior of motion, the messiah of agonized voices, I speak silence with oscillating postures of my vessel, the house of my never resting soul. Reveal yourself!”  With a trembling rage he said. In return all that was said to him was not heard, there was only silence…and nothing else but the fury inspired pulse of his heart chanting songs of struggle, crying to escape through his throat. The annoying fingers of impatience scratching his back, boiling chest, words are now evaporating out of his mouth, you could tell be the appearance of the speech bubbles “What are you!” now his sharp eyes are collecting water from his tormented mind “I said reveal your identity, what on this breathing earth are you!”

After numeral fractions of seconds nearing a minute a voice came carried by the lucent hands of sound, from the unknown fields where the gods play hide and seek, a voice was heard, “I am not, I am as residues of your past thoughts, your perception of me embodies my soul, only then do I become ”…

”How sick are you? Do you even refer to that as an answer?!” savagely uttered the warrior of motion. “Reveal yourself and meet your long determined doom!” 

Learning that the warrior had been driven by flames of hatred and the energy of conflict, the writer humbly spoke “Only bliss resides in a spot previously inhabited by ego in my mind, so your fury is just a weapon of suicide to yourself, inhale serenity now and witness the wonders of being still” a smile could be heard spreading itself on his face. “What is it  that you seek from a solid nothingness that I am?”

Astonishingly this time no silence was heard, fury partially faded and this came from the messiah’s mouth “If you are not and yet you’re part of us tellurians, what is then your sole purpose?”

“I write. What is your mission?” asked the great nihility

“I move those who are fortunate enough to see me, through channeling I walk with their minds to realms of visible gods, the gods that have chosen motion as their token of worships. Who are you trying to help with your writings?” with words compressed in a vehicle of sarcasm, he asked.  

“I don’t write to save and change lives, I write to stay alive. I don’t wish to entertain anyone, I don’t dream of having disciples nor do I want to be celebrated. My writing is a bridge between me and the gods, I write, they exist. I write, they become, I write and become one with them”

“Well I have come to burn the bridge, I want to perform, I want to connect and be one with my audience, I want them to feel me, I want them to remember me after every performance!” fury came back only this time tamed by sympathetic flow of tears, sadness became the invisible vacuum that sucked ego out through his pores of discomfort, without the interruption of the writer, he proceeded “I have been commanded to come here and loot off you your writings, so please, you have to help me, my existence is an insult to the elders. Grant me your scrolls”…

“It is only my text you will take; you cannot take my writing even if I wanted to permit that. I’m afraid your elders have long neglected the art of writing and went astray with the joys of crazing the audience and the beauty of fingers yelling snaps to their pseudo lines punched out of context by blur imagery constructed from clichés and modern consumer language. You see writing allows me to fly, performing sends me back to the lifetime prison that is this body, this body is a predicament, I want to fly”  

With no conclusion or whatsoever that usually marks an end to most conversations, emptiness took its place once again…then there was nothing but writing for the God sake of writing.