Seas of love

Entire sea exhausted by silent views, sediment from calm fatigue in themselves, mute thoughts from blunt feelings; yet plans within plans, plans to get nowhere very fast. Ideals that serve as reminders of trimmed shadows standing before their destroyer, forgotten beyond recognition by themselves, ambushed with lies, discarded to nonexistence. Radicals, who aim to liberate people from everything, even love itself.

And at the bottom of that lost sea remains but a single drop, secretly defying existence; a proof that, in some golden times, there used to be a vast infinite sea. Drop created only from memories, wrapped in itself in an ideal sphere, jealously wishing to preserve those identity boundaries, borders distinguishing it from the nothingness that has surrounded it so strongly with pressure from all sides... becoming a secret sea, a sea only for itself.

And somewhere in the centre of its fragile making, there lies trapped substance of women, fatal as they are; women… breaking everything into pieces putting all back together again, just to break everything in pieces all over again. But that’s the least reason why not to love!

No tears, only battle for long lost fears

Desperately seeking under his bed, trying to find traces of long lost parts of himself – his fears, yearning to bring them back. He has lost them somewhere on this long winding road, and now when they’re multiplied with nothing, existing only in a mathematical region… he’s starting to miss them. Since he’s freed himself of fears, he’s got nothing to lose anymore. A tall man without fears and having nothing to lose becomes a threat, for he’s more dangerous than ever before. And there's no tears, only battle for his long lost fears...

In a perpetual fight and martyrdom he’s fixing his broken self, a futile attempt to achieve only good and better, craving to rebuild gears of invisible clocks ticking in some parallel perception. Knowing that surviving is never enough, ideals come back pumping fresh blood full with oxygen in a burnt to a crisp soul. 

Refreshed and restored, only in the times when he found his ways…

Hunters and gatherers

Perception is grown and nurtured, changing constantly, moving from shape to shape, increasing in volume and mass. In other incidents it’s shrinking into something, maybe nothing. Either way, perception is a gate of the soul. Through that opening it creates forms of the soul, beautiful or deformed; in any case, predictable only in a probability, as a percentage – a part of the whole.

So, we become expeditors of dreams, or not. No matter whatever happens, we become a collection of consequences, sometimes with reasons sometimes without. By abusing the dilatation of time we strive to gather memories and rearrange them according to our liking, we accept or deny people, we chase for ideals and goals, we hunt for prey… we are fragments of everything and anything, many districts in a single person – the beauty of human existence!

Any which way, it’s all very simple actually… after so many eons passed, thousands of generations of mosaic evolution… and we’re still hunters and gatherers :)