Goodbye my love,
maybe for forever
Who knows when we shall meet again,
Keeps flowing like a river
To the sea
Till it’s gone,
Goodbye my friend
Courtesy of: The Alan Parsons Project, you made me cry there –
(see full image)
A first post from Instagram through e-mail to the blog, trying out the options as always. Click-on-pic will redirect to Instagram for full pic-view. Funny how that in itself resembles dislocation of some kind. Too many clicks.. Coincidences of life.
Was supposed to be there,
intentionally. Not here.
Somehow, somewhere along the line,
focus shifted. Eyes wide shut.
Feels like being stuck in 5 feet of
muddy twilight zone.
For 24 earth orbits around the Sun.
I ran into a cool blog/article. I had read the text before in a feed filling Facebook post http://www.inspirationandchai.com/Regrets-of-the-Dying.html. Its title is …kind of morbid, but the intention is indeed inspirational. It fits nicely into my non-regret posture of “Wishing it, won’t make it happen, living it, will”. If you want something, try imagining it first and keep doing that, living it before it’s there, until it feels inevitable that you should have it and the only thing missing is you having it.
At the same time, writing this post follows on the weirdest warped and unstructured thoughts pushed on to me by my mind. In all blackness, more than darkness, first me and mom are walking the streets, going somewhere, to have diner. Suddenly I realize I left something in the house and walk back to fetch it. Leaving her, saying she will be fine and I will catch up. I never did, I lost her coming back. Second, now three of us went swimming, again all blackness, more than darkness. Two of us in a rubber boat, moving away from mom, who is in the water, where we pushed off. Was, no response on my loud voice. I go back for her, I swim down then up against heavy tides, strangely both ways strong pulling tides. The piers I pass are of the houses at Republic, an outdoor place I frequented growing up. I can’t find her. It seems as if some time has passed, I am apparently looking outside, a view from my bedroom window. On the streets, a police car stopped not far from the house. Weird, it’s not a Dutch car, not a Paradise car, but a US Sheriff’s car with red flashing lights. There seems to be something stretched on the street next to the car. I can’t see what it is.
They call it bad dreams. This text is as unstructured as the warped thoughts themselves. I do not refer to it as imagining a want as above. That would be structured, controlled, directed. No regrets.
Alle topics in deze blog hebben verband met alle vrijheden die ons als mens raken. Wat beweegt, sitmuleert of motiveert ons om te doen wat we doen? Houden we rekening met de innerlijke waarheden van ons zelf en van anderen? Wat is waarheid?
Gear to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
Cooking -- and photography -- are personalization