Nothing much has happened in my life. This day to day routine is trying and troublesome. I think of content to write but nothing much emerges.
I had a strange dream and in it I was going through a tunnel. I looked up at the dream dictionary and found the meaning as, going through a tunnel means solving a problem and beginning a new phase of life. I am excited at the prospects that the dream has to offer.
I wonder where life is taking me to. I dream of visiting enchanted islands like Bali, the Philippines where my significant other lives. I dream of smoking clove cigarettes and having Indonesian grilled fish and duck roast and rice with Sambal.
I nourish writing as a poetic dream. I draw writing with my pen and brush against the canvas of the paper. Form is the evolution of the ego into an aesthetic symbolism of an idealism. Content is what the pen plants as a seed and writing is an evolution of a fruit. Style of writing is a fictional utopia. Meaning is the recognition of the allegory in aesthetic semblances. I carve beautiful sculptures with my pen. Writing is the joyful exertion of freedom. The joy of writing is the liberation of the ego, the joyssance of the body. The text is the manna of celebration. Nietzsche the philosopher said: ‘a good writer is a one who is ashamed of the self’. We write in words about what is a bodily negation. Writing bears the angst of the self. Writing is the art of being a stoic epicurean and a philosophical Socrates. To write as Derrida has said: ‘is to have the passion of origin’.
Rain spoke in celestial music….poetry poured over the earth….the skies remained gloomy….a puddle of water lay on the ground like a sleeping baby….shrieking winds battered trees and lampposts…..the rain invited me as a frozen visitor….mutiny lay on the ground like a fearsome shadow….nature is a shadow of embracing the rain…..pour, pour now….a revolution of cats and dogs……
Darling Honey, Dearest Lover, you are an awakened poem of romance, a cradle of love, a song of beauty, a nymph of passion. Let me embrace you as a romantic sunset. Let me kiss your sensual lips and feel them like morn’s dew. Your body is tender and sensuous as a flowing brook. Let me suckle your orifices with tremulous joy. Let me penetrate you and sing a joyful song.
Life can be compared to the movements of an eccentric clock. Sometimes the clock moves backwards and we are forced to live our memories. Sometimes the dials get stuck and we have to live with present. Sometimes the dials move forwards and then there is anticipation of the future.
You blossomed flower—you petal of beauty—your body is an ornament to adore—your lips part like flowers—how sensuous it is to kiss them—how gorgeous is your hair as black as the night—your breasts are monuments of passion—your orifices are melting honey.
Psyche your marvel—nature’s decorated ornament—there nature has perched you on wings sublime—there you float in the air like the strings of the harp being plucked— you colorful entity—you music of nature—you marvel of God’s creation –there you go like the psalms being said—you are a psychedelic halo—a gaze of a seer—a magic for the soul—a cantata for the heart.
Psyche—you marvel on wings—there you float as poetic music—there you dance as an ornament—you are nature’s love—you are a hymn of celestial delight—watching you is a rapture of the senses—a canticle being sung—a music—a poetry being recited. God Jehovah Jesus has made you are so precious and wonderful.