day 365

voyages to nowhere. that is somewhere. where I meet, aporia, and filled landscapes of broken trees, rootless and leaves-less. imaginations filled with visions forgotten. just lines and words that don't make sense. don't have to make sense. say Sinn. and I understand. how do you exorcise demons of yesterdays? don't have to. be young, so young that death is round the corner. and voyages are always planned journeys for accidents. and tensions galore, filled with raining fish and they are a blessing and a hazard. gravity can kill. no. a body dropping from above can kill. A corpus of texts. no. A corpus of imaginary heavens. free me, then, of generation of transgressions and mistakes. who's left, to fill my soul, with the inspiration of silence. knows me, like You do. so I shall, then, learn to not expect. and fill my bubbles with obscure lines and references. which no one hears. and enlist the cherubims as well, with double-edged swords and shields of irony and parody. free me with the violence that is destined. burn me, whiteness, clarity beyond reason. Daniel-like witnessing, and the lunatic with his horse chants. don't whip me. don't chain me. I won't be nice. within me, obscurity that hurts. together with the tree that murders me; and the tree that regenerates me. Boehme-like. I won't forget me. I will forget You. and in so doing, know You. Then, prism of love, we meet, with sharp fecundity. to productively and creatively, venture and invent, what cannot be imagined. but hoist up our bloody palms, with our bleeding stigmatas, we may profess, before the cock returns, that we always never knew, only led by faith. unlike anyone. but lost, in hopeless and peaceful colours mixing into a radiant and blinding force we can only paradoxically call it love. Voyages to return, after the writings are done. with words to hurt and bury us. So. I conclude: I know love. I hate love.

Don't write.