Death brings flowers for such an occasion, triumph. We all get to meet her, just as a cannon fodders we can say its a burst of smoke. We vanish, to wander the mortal bridge in time. Underneath the vast abyss, swinging on the pendulum of time. We make sensational people, remarkable fossils and one day we make beautiful ash. Pace your intrinsic self, for we don’t need to live for one day.
We are only an observation of one’s self and the world surrounding them. Like many facilities of information and slips of universal knowledge, we narrate these steps. These corridors, pedways, alleys and slews of our vessels, entrenched like a soldier. We share information amongst one another, as we sleep these slips evolve into a trance. The trance of a deeper mind.
But lately I’ve been sleeping while awake, awake in reality but asleep in the parallels. A state like holding your emotional breath and testing your will. Receiving and transmitting a sphere of visual audio, unable to radiate in its glory.
Brushometry using intent and making an impression with your paint and brush. Letting the moment create the feeling, the instant abstract symbols as if a ghost wielded the mighty brush
Long ago we were born to escape the pain, “face it now, ‘it’ only grows when you ignore the torture”.
Well… what is ‘it’?
It’s us, it’s our comfort, it’s allowing us to not know mistakes. It’s an addiction, it’s procrastination, it’s not strategic or well spoken. Its not letting yourself learn.
It is being the victim.
Embracing indifference, working among the thresholds. Setting intentions, then plotting,
Subconsciously it’s a plan for your escape.
There is a sadness that is not easy to sit with. Its as if you are on a date with your faults trying to enjoy every minute. One corner of your being trapped under ice while another desperately searches for comfort in pain. This obscure part of you that hits the door frames of others personalities. It is about being so rare you just don’t fit in. Trying to cut around the tissue of society, to make way for our emotional transplant. Just capsules floating through the abyss, god has fished from the sea with butterfly nets, as if in the pool. Just insects in our own coffee
Bruised by the sun, exposed, vulnerable Every impression takes a piece from you, a magnificent sculpture now in pieces. A temporary piece in the installation of time. If feet could be traded for wings… would you choose to fly? If fingers became flags, would you wave it? The unravelling of a bandage we’ll expose our triggers and break down our walls. Willingly we give up the keys to our castle.
One must write, one must collect and accept we are no more powerful than the streams carving out the rock or the canal feeding the wildlife. True potential is to grace life with perspective. Through sterilization processing and temperament we can synthesize communication through business and knowledge. To have our own dripped wax seal on her parchment paper lips
The two hemispheres of our brains trying to merge in the place of reflection.
Where we remain open to receive, our third eye, the pillar of all knowledge. To remain transparent, raising a blockade against all ego and emotion. To reflect upon the big picture, life has created from the branches of one’s unique self. Our own narrative for people’s consciousness, casting a ripple and acting based on the subconsciousness.
We dread the deep waters for who we gaze for,
Who we yearn for.
“Are” and “is”…
The mindset of the subconscious.
Going into the still after the intensity of a kinetic approach, planking for two minutes, deep breathing and quivering muscles.
Calm, focused, determined.
A natural homeostasis done with the subconscious we use to fire ourselves up.
To go deep, to where the “are” and “is” come from, a place of deep relaxation,
And lucid dreams.
We’re just fibres of a thread, tied on the top and bottom of the strings of resonance. The more we become the universe around us, the more we feel the refractions of time and the reflections of the past.
It feels like a beacon sent to my body,
String theory on a quantum field,
A map to navigate our collective emotions, and the travelling of our consciousness.
A match strikes on one side of the world and the fire starts on the opposite. Paradigms, echoes of karma and sudden reactions. Light bends around objects as if lucid in space.
How the moon reflects in the rivers ripples and the land rolling hills,
Just has our dreams reflect in the cosmos.
It’s all noise, light and color.
Simple compulsons drive our thoughts, our world the weaving of smoke and mirrors, shadowing the truth. We can’t rely on anything or cling to hope.
Form is a void, the void is a form,
You can not nail a peg in the sky , every smashed compass and clock.
Coming to terms with the circles of our dimension and the tangible form of our existence. Just like a mirror cannot reflect color
There was light in the beginning, there will be light in the end.
We have sliced everything in nature into molecules, but light remains pure. A world discovering itself, while destroying itself.
With light being the comforting call in the darkness.
I’ve looked at people and spoken words I’ve never dare to speak,
In languages I’ve never learned,
I’ve looked at people and known all the answers.
Periodic elements, calcium, carbide, uranium 152.
Connection is a weird sensation, knowing their favorite pet or the pain they felt while losing a loved one.
Body scanning them and trying to remain conscious of their energy,
Getting lost in each tarot card as you watch them reveal one’s truths
Hearing stories of ghosts whispering in someone’s house,
And people lost where they do not belong
Winning the lottery with numbers, whispered to a women from the grave.
All poems written by Anthony Edward Hicks