11 - August - 2013
But somehow I'm still searching every night and day,
And I cant find a girl worth talking to.
What is wrong with me?
All day long I search through the city to find an angel and when I do find such beauty, I would talk myself out of it. I let her go into the sea of faces thinking that it was better that way. I was probably disturbing her life if I ever find the courage to talk to her. I told myself she will be forgotten. And like a pathetic fool who falls in love with every female that show the slightest positive emotions of a small second stare from the beautiful Chinese jogger in the park to the smile of a wanderer at the bus station. I shrugged away thinking that I would only hurt them if any further interaction was made. How long must I keep lying to myself of my past? Those lost lover, those who left me, the broken hearts and the dead are the fate of my companions. All but a memory of sadness and sorrow that often shadow those great moments of happiness and joy. For with every laugh it bring greater pain to know that those of the past are no more. That those joy has ended like all things. The End is the fate of every single aspect of this universe. For in the end only can a new story begins. But for someone like me who has a wider understanding of the nature of Time, the past, present and future has a mix of wibbly wobbly mess. I'm reluctant to engage in any new birth of emotions. What is the point if it all always end?
Times like this, I always remember spying on Sigmund Freud whom wrote a great essay called 'On Transience' where he recalled a walk he had with the poet, Rilke. I remember seeing the poet weeping in the middle of the garden. I remember hearing Freud asking him on why such a display of sadness in such a magnificent settings. The poet told him that he couldnt get over the fact that all this beauty will one day decay. Everything dissolves into nothingness. The greatest existential bummer is Entropy. Time is Death's Hand.
Said I to myself. Why bother? But yet after a night of memory editing through the usage of cannabis and dream-filled sleep, my mind still echoes of her face. But why? Her brown leather satchel that enjoys the breeze of her heavy pace in the mildly crowded station. Searching for the bus that will take her to the desired destination. Her eyes so lost in its own beauty of her current predicaments ignorant to my unmasked stares. Her fine body covered with the denim indicates to me that she is not just that sweet of an angel and she might just give u a hell of a good kicking. This girl reminds me of a Mustang.
She is the kind of great beast of an ecstatic craftsmanship of a biological machinery masterpiece.
The sort of female that has the classic beauty of a wild American Stallion.
The sort of girl that fit perfectly with the Hell's Angels on the scorching highways.
The female that best at home on the back of a wheel cruising down the route 66 through the red valleys of a canyon.
A Sacajawea in denim smoking the shotgun out of her black lips.
Or maybe listening to The Doors and the new Arctic Monkeys albums made her so fucking unforgettable kind of ass.
Whatever she was, too bad Jim Morrisson or Alex Turner didnt possess this body of mine and do their magic of a soft whisper to set waterfalls onto those panties of hers.
Maybe in another alternate universe.
For the Vision of the Exception is all that I'm able to enjoy.
|Life photographer Bill Ray|
A lovely skull sat upon a highway,
Setting his eyes on the rising sun.
A hungry bone walks on the midway,
While the white children are having fun,
On a morning after a fat pedophile has bribe your silence like a gift for his whores,
Tipping toes upon the floors,
An Evil bought at the stores,
Why is this a Jewish Folklore?
I thought Gandalf had told them,
One must never obsess upon the Golden.
Raping the innocence,
without an evidence,
Faith in the Governance,
All this sounds like a Rebelliance?
But no longer can I accept the Buddhist philosophy of detachment. It has freed me from my pain and sorrow but it has robbed me from my courage to grab some and fulfill my desire.
Maybe its time for me to adopt the Dylan Thomas Quote :
I will not go quietly into that Good Night,
But instead Rage against the dying of the light.
JACK KEROUAC's On the Road movie trailer :