Conversations Of Time And Bird: Part 3

Suddenly you notice that dark side, the boundaries smudged into reality, more black than the darkest. Even the flashlights emitting black, like thick paint flowing in streams, reminiscent of headless pythons still bleeding through. Maybe you are just realizing the obvious presence that had been there since you saw blood. It's so invitingly black that you're almost already inside. Or maybe you always were.

**

Too many darks.

**

It's very dark.

Conversations Of Time And Bird: Part 2

Nature, do you think it exists?
What we think as nature is earth? What is not us?
Like the disasters.
But we are nature. We are the chaos.

But we create beautiful things. Like numbers.
And we use them for higher abstractions.
We build nature.
We change. We make change.
This is like the "way" things flow.
Like an equation, that is too far from our reach.

You see a girl, a hot one. She is hot because of years of natural selection. Purely random changes that creates a pattern.
The one which survives.
And one who gets the one from the other side.

We make art.
We define unique.
All this, out of this chaos.
Very, much like a picture painting itself.
Like a memetic conscience, that just got created out of nothingness.
Just pure beauty.

The Infinity Field

I had a name. Now it keeps slipping into darkness. Someone pulling one end of the infinite string, slowly dragging everything into the black sand, succumbing, silently. The feeling of emptiness, when all the million noises that never stopped — decided to. The feeling that nothing was ever real. A suit, shading everything, a suit that you controlled, a skin that you comfortably wear and take off, faking, not even trying to understand, listening to the distance, and not feeling what you ought to. The feeling of being alien on the inside. This can't be.

The things I believed, the emotions I trusted, the silence I loved were no longer the same, no longer mine. I found a door that opened to a bright white field, tall grass filling it till the horizons, smoke that floats up in the sky instead of the clouds. I found all this inside the darkness of these walls creeping all over, making boundaries, they tried to at least. Emerging out of a cocoon, breathing for the first time, like in the first rain. I felt what it is like to fly, without wings, without being told how to, without being any different. I tried to look at my hands and see the wrinkles, I tried to move my feet and feel the warmth of the dying sand. But I was not in the suit anymore, I was me. I found freedom, the very last inch of it. I met a man, I couldn't see his face because there was no light. 

I had lost track of time. I wandered around the place for days, without water or food, without anyone to bother me. This was the first living thing I saw back here. I listened to his stories the whole night. I didn't feel tired, I never felt like sleeping, you never need to sleep back here, or eat. I remembered what it was like to feel. The smell of the morning dew, the grass swaying with the wind, touching my skin. I kept listening to his voice for nights, like a lullaby, soothing, caring. I remembered. I saw my first sunrise that day — the green borders of the changing red. I wanted to sleep beside him. I could see his face while I closed my eyes... It was me.

Apocalypse

There are quite a few number of way to be the roulette ball that chooses what happens next in the alarming number of sequences intertwined into random utterings of subtle insults from someone living inside one's head. This is like telling me to forget what I already won't. At least for this lifetime.

All started with green, like most days. No one reads the warnings. I don't think there was one either. This however was meant to be. Like someday we would have gone there. There seems no legitimate reason, but exactly that might be the reason, a paradox written for me, flowing down with the hourglass' fine sand - the finest of all this earth.

I can still argue forever the reasons, build make-belief castles and snow cones and apple pies and hot sunny beaches to forget and be happy. But there is that safe-lock of memories from Inception, where that guy hides his darkness. No matter how hard you try, you come out different, like there is something less every time. You start trusting your ground, the one beneath the water because you felt it to be true, solid. It's not her fault, not really. There was this Moon's diurnal when I think about it. The one everyone usually forgets.

Following were some constant flashes of foam on top of saline and sand, people screaming which was like some Korean movie playing on mute. Yet, there was no tunnel and the whole light and then write a book kind of situation. What really happened was that everyday stuff and people saved another season, and I was just about in the middle. In the end, you feel purer, calmer, better, useful, mature, born. It is like cancelling the apocalypse, and then climbing to the head and shooting right between her eyes with the old sawed-off shotgun. This team did. 

The Watchmen

Hypothetical world has only one kind of job. To watch others. They change shifts, they switch places. One being watched becomes the one who is watching. They make records, logs. Then there are others, like a few hundred thousand billions, who support this enterprise. The ones who cook, the ones who manage and the ones who check. Then there are people. Like us. We are hidden. Living in darkness, under their cloud.

Forgotten, like we never even existed. Shutdown in this slum underneath. A world lit by the corporations that formed during the renaissance. They stand on our heads when people die. They die because of hunger and helplessness. They do not speak now. They do not cry either. They know their probable future and watch other eat the dead. Survival.

I see all this through this small hole I dug. I made it out of that place now! I can watch. I can watch everything. I can now.

Begin.

P.S: Read this in the voice of Tyler Durden.

Conversations Of Time And Bird: Part 1

I waited for hours under the hot sun, finding shadows to stand on, of busy commuters, looking at your windowpane. I stood there without a jacket on the cold winter nights. Seasons moved past. I grew old. I grew a gray beard. People didn't see me. Neither did you. I stood there, for the rest of my life.

Then you came down one day. The very next day. There was no more of the noises I could hear. Or the smells. I grew roots and branches. I grew plumage. But only mine was for food. I was being eaten. I was being sat on. But you didn't see me. I was just a tree.

- Sounds like your wife takes a long time to get ready.

Utopian Wonderland

Feeling like you are the only person in the world, like the rest of this place is made just for you. All that you see is a big setup, with intricate details, like the old huts, the LED tickers, all these commuters and vendors. The feeling of being detached, everything you see isn't what you thought it was. You lose track of reality and time, that something is quite not right. You realize and find everything to be strange, compelling to end this world in some way, like them taking over and burning everything down. That this whole thing was for you alone.

Spirals of white smoke and charred remains that makes you go places, to be there and to be never. You exist because of them, they are your life. You remove one by one, like you remove the bricks from your face, till that fades into thin air. You understand what it is to be wrong, when you thought it couldn't get any better. An explosia, a drum roll and voila. A dragon with no fire and a khaki-trousered-crazy. Where faint was a lifestyle, where you speak through veils and forget about the rest. And you thought this couldn't get any better? Right.

But this was strange enough, happening too fast that you don't even get time to take everything in. Constant, where there was no sense of mind. Or maybe this was what you were supposed to be. You find simple things to be the most fun. You find happiness and that alone. You forget that this world isn't real. You live inside that happiness, this small world, the simple one. Would you make this permanent?

Of Interweaved Parallel Realities and Coffee

Suddenly she was shouting in the class for something quite funny. I wasn't listening to her either. She was furious. Then it occurred to me. What if there was a parallel reality linked with everyone of us and these just met randomly when we interacted? What if everyone sees the same time-space continuum-world-paradox-inception-thing differently? It's not like you can get into their heads and see what they are seeing. I always wanted to do that,  to get inside someone else's head and see the world as they see it, to see if they are perceiving it the same way I do. 

Anyway, I was sunk low, dragged into this narrow vortex of white space, where people walked in a 3-dimensional bubble. She was still shouting at us, her reality affecting each of us, making new parallel realities, where this existed and did not. Like the group of girls that joined later, combining their realities, adding-subtracting from our parallels, from even my parallel understanding. 

Then I thought what if I didn't make that choice? What if I never did let him commit? What if she never shouted at everyone? There were so many parallel universes. And even the little choices people around us changed our reality, constantly, and transforming into newer combinations, never-ending combos, but all our realities linked - interweaved, like we didn't have a choice, like we were meager puppets. 

Then I thought I would let go. Let others take control of my reality. I walked with them. I didn't speak. I let them take control, chocking it. Then someone got me a coffee, but I paid for it. Coffee anyone?

And to Runaway

Since his beginning, man was that curious son who wandered around that great wilderness into the path of making. That guy, who lives inside almost everyone, forgotten and buried.

I sometimes feel like running away, without a reason, without telling anyone. Like the guy from Into the Wild, without anything to hold me back, without this never-passing dark cloud of burden, the chores and the monotone. Maybe not into the wild or to live in the mountains, but to be freed from all this fake emotions and noise, maybe never to return. To do whatever that I feel like, to not to answer to anyone, without liabilities and people to care for. 

To take that random bus and that last boat, to walk along the empty footbridge, to walk around the world in silence, without being noticed and called by my name. Runaway from this music, run faster from the existence. To hide among the crowd, to be that nomad. Being the camouflage, the homeless.

But how hard I try or decide, something holds me down. Something primitive - a fear inside. Fear that was the very definition of this life, that makes me do things. But running past everything? I don't know why, just being in the dark.

Two Full Moons

This place have been always so special. Watching what man had created till the end of what your eyes can see. The lights and the sun, hundreds of red lights blinking in the sky, the smoke and the trees.

It was a full moon the last time I was here. I was with her. We saw a wishing star that day. I wished I never met her. This place showed me how little and peaceful everything really was. They didn't give me much time to live, not even to smile.

Its a full moon today. I could see the darkness and the roads. Endless trail of red lights, the lone chopper flying over the highest buildings, the little campfires over the beach, the drop of the mountain sky. I saw everyone's life in mute. No screams, no horns, no more pain. Just me and this cold wind. I jumped down the cliff, into the clouds so serene. The embrace.