10-24-2019, 08:54 AM
Day 48 (0)
Like cinders of the ashen rain
As I question everything and trying to make sense out of it all in the bloom and gloom of the dark autumn evening strange things may happen.
I happens rarely but once every now and then I become... sensitive to beauty, for lack of a better word. Most times when I'm out on a walk I tend to get lost in my music or podcast. Its hard not to, treking the same path again and again your mind wonders, you don't need to observe as everything is familiar. But yesterday was one of those days when it did not happen, I was hyperaware. I was noticing people, event, trying to use my empathy to figure out their stories and maybe learn something or maybe just be there to observe.
In state like that there is beauty in everything. Read "Leaves of Grass" or listen to Nightwish's "Song of Myself" to more or less get what I mean. Sadness is beautiful, as is happiness and joy. Crying and cheering. Items brand new and destroyed relics of bygone communist age. Pubs and churches. Small dogs on leashes and free crows scavenging for food among acorns and junk...
Couple holding hands, approaching me. They seem happy but man's face is not that genuine. It's not that he's hiding he's emotions, it's just that he doesn't want her to be sad. She notices but plays along. Does she know what's going on? Rough day at work, little secret, death in the family or simply small concerns of everyday routine? Can she truly cheer him up or has she lost ability to do so? Did she have it at all?
Walk from district to district, block to block in enlightening. One you walk on pristine pavement, clean and even. A minute later it managed to turn into rigged s**tshow. Small ponds of water fill the gaping holes in the cobblestone. Such neglect. I once heard cleaning services are more important in the city than the police as appearance of order can be more powerful than enforcement of the order itself. Well...
Random graffiti you cease to notice after year or five of living in the city. What drove them to draw it? Passion, desire to destroy and vandalize or perhaps desire to leave a mark on the city. Or maybe all at the same time? How many people did this art help, how many expressed themselves? How long will it last, destroyed sooner or later by city officials.
Even roads, cars, trams, like cells in the blood of the city. Everyone goes somewhere, everyone originates but all travel. And everyone will travel back. All the passengers have desires, dreams, motivations. Did they have to or did they want to embark on this particular trip? Will everything do as planned? How many will get robbed on the way and how many will meet by pure chance the love of their lives.
What all these people think about me. Robust 5'8 in black leather jacket and face of "don't f**k with me" walking down the dark alleyway in the death of the night. What does he want, what does he need, what are his dreams and desires? What does he think listening to the repeated chorus for the 10th time
Like cinders of the ashen rain
As I question everything and trying to make sense out of it all in the bloom and gloom of the dark autumn evening strange things may happen.
I happens rarely but once every now and then I become... sensitive to beauty, for lack of a better word. Most times when I'm out on a walk I tend to get lost in my music or podcast. Its hard not to, treking the same path again and again your mind wonders, you don't need to observe as everything is familiar. But yesterday was one of those days when it did not happen, I was hyperaware. I was noticing people, event, trying to use my empathy to figure out their stories and maybe learn something or maybe just be there to observe.
In state like that there is beauty in everything. Read "Leaves of Grass" or listen to Nightwish's "Song of Myself" to more or less get what I mean. Sadness is beautiful, as is happiness and joy. Crying and cheering. Items brand new and destroyed relics of bygone communist age. Pubs and churches. Small dogs on leashes and free crows scavenging for food among acorns and junk...
Couple holding hands, approaching me. They seem happy but man's face is not that genuine. It's not that he's hiding he's emotions, it's just that he doesn't want her to be sad. She notices but plays along. Does she know what's going on? Rough day at work, little secret, death in the family or simply small concerns of everyday routine? Can she truly cheer him up or has she lost ability to do so? Did she have it at all?
Walk from district to district, block to block in enlightening. One you walk on pristine pavement, clean and even. A minute later it managed to turn into rigged s**tshow. Small ponds of water fill the gaping holes in the cobblestone. Such neglect. I once heard cleaning services are more important in the city than the police as appearance of order can be more powerful than enforcement of the order itself. Well...
Random graffiti you cease to notice after year or five of living in the city. What drove them to draw it? Passion, desire to destroy and vandalize or perhaps desire to leave a mark on the city. Or maybe all at the same time? How many people did this art help, how many expressed themselves? How long will it last, destroyed sooner or later by city officials.
Even roads, cars, trams, like cells in the blood of the city. Everyone goes somewhere, everyone originates but all travel. And everyone will travel back. All the passengers have desires, dreams, motivations. Did they have to or did they want to embark on this particular trip? Will everything do as planned? How many will get robbed on the way and how many will meet by pure chance the love of their lives.
What all these people think about me. Robust 5'8 in black leather jacket and face of "don't f**k with me" walking down the dark alleyway in the death of the night. What does he want, what does he need, what are his dreams and desires? What does he think listening to the repeated chorus for the 10th time
Quote:We can't withstand forever
The flame will set us free
As long as we're together
We dance in the ashen rain
Stand side by side no matter
How long the road may be
And when we're burned, forever
We'll dance in the ashen rain
For not by numbers of men, nor by measure of body, but by valor of soul is war to be decided.
~Belisarius, the last Roman
Certitude is for the puzzle-box logicians and girls of white glamour [...]. I am a letter written in uncertainty.
~36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 4
~Belisarius, the last Roman
Certitude is for the puzzle-box logicians and girls of white glamour [...]. I am a letter written in uncertainty.
~36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 4
