The light is getting dark, there are crystals in the air. How come they know their times and yet I do not. In the snowy valley everything is in shades of dark and grey, quite an entrance of the night, an exit to me. I wonder the light as the ghost wonders life, the only present mirrors the past, a past that will not come. Most souls do chase after the light, try to outrun the coming night, but I prefer the relief of the passing, the transitioning, the almost caress that is gentle and calm. It says: take your time.

They say life is but a dream. I have fragments of needy emotions conjuring up images to support their fragile nature, distorting memories in the meantime to fit individual taste. What we feel are what to us, the only thing that’s real. I think we are just selfish that way. Holding on to the very last shred of evidence that we exist, that we matter. But I’m here in the valley, where nothing cares, because it’s not expecting anything because nothing is doing any expecting, they just are. No thoughts then, what a relief. Nothing here hurts, so I’m not afraid; nothing here cares; so I’m content; nothing here ponders, so I exist.

The night is chill as a diamond, but we don’t shiver from cold do we, if we have nothing to lose and nothing to gain. We are going where we are going, somewhere in the distance, not yet, just a destination, what can it be. Can’t help but fondling the end. Is it un-natural? Or is it a way to construct the beginning. For everything has a beginning, and the end is but one of those things.

No stars to point the way, yet an inner light is guiding me. The shadows in the dark do not frighten me, but arouse in me an absent-minded curiosity. Are they afraid, what do they see when they look, if they are following me what would happen to their own, everything has its own path, I don’t mind the company for awhile, pitiful things, I hope they find what they seek.

Compassion is felt when one is walking closer to the doom. When we stare down into our own abyss, we finally spare a glance to our un-witty companions and resonate the desperations and a common story. We can help each other; we can share our warmth; we can exchange the stories of our past; we can probe for the doors, the handles, the steps, the vaults to our origin; we can exchange hearts if you don’t mind, would you pass the salt.

Change is coming when the solitary me meet a boundary of a time. The end of the valley where the shadows retreat and hide. The hidden moon now clears a slivery path to the heart of the desert. Still, thorn-covered plants line the long-ago dried-up frozen earth. Nothing to see here, it is an escape. And I take it as if it’s my choice.

Have you heard the sounds of your thoughts, even if you are not thinking of anything, trying to keep your mind as dry and as clear as the night air. SXRCH, SDRCH, XXDRC. Did not know they can be so loud. Everything has ears now as if the sounds create a whole new existence. Me. Not deliberate, not holding back either. Proud and humble as I can be. My steps announce my guilt, my ambition, my pitch and my triumph. I am here.

I do not see any features of my destination, but I know I’m here. My feet won’t carry me any further, my breath catches and grows faster, and my soul stills then stirs, my eyes grow large and water on their own accord. I can see now. The sky is as clear as it has always been, the earth is as giving as the end. I have traveled with a guide that is planted in me. I was afraid, but not any more. Show me. I come to see you. Just as you always see me:

I’m but an ornament, an ornament in your design. No more, no less.

May it be so that we are but multitudes of hearts. Some are flaring like light houses, while others burn red hot and groan and flow like lava. How do we comfort the rise and flow of such forces, which give our lives their texture, their misery, their drive.

How much is too much and how to load the self-pities and domains with ease. Without second guessing, without glancing all around in search of the source of one particular evil. How does one lay his wary head to sleep, dreaming of death and birth and nothing else.

Connect or not to connect. That is the question. Be careful on your choosing of words, sentences, glances, your footing, the chair you are leaning against, are they yours, can you care.

Why should you care. If life is but pieces of shredded pages from a story book that was long lost and horribly remade and retold, with each generation, can truth last. Too many truth now, are we alive.

Love is a dangerous notion, understanding holds its own peril. How to love without being real, without being true, without being touched. What touches you can also kill you. What is love but fire already raged for too long, inside. What do you see.

Change is the devil and the saint. Grinding over the past life and be sure not what has been sown. Time can tell, time kills.

Is it wrong to have too many hearts. One heart for the sand in my eye, one for the air in my lung, one for the rain touching the ground, one for the life that is stretching long.

Love too many things, hanging the stars on every tree, finding a moon in every pond. Dance as if the spirit has never been broken, sing a song that only a bird can want.

Forgetting, forgetting, forgot.