Divine complexion

It is like a city with an embedded waterfront; a city filed with street artists and musicians and even beggars, where shadows loom and voices rise and echo. It is like a city, bustling and dancing, crowded and gazing, though powerless. With a blind spirit, which only the realistically blind can see. And for those who are not, most of them are over-bored. And the others are… just gazing. Just looking and parting.

He is looking up and walking, with a miraculous gaze, as if daring the stars and the moonlit sky. His words seem to be immaculately witty, so fabulously arranged and so celestially poignant and powerful, as if they could speak all his poetry and his violence for him without a single doubt or an instinct left. It is written over his face and in his eyes. It is written in the flabbergasting confusion, that slow movement, that slowly turns into a song of cold winter ecstasy. He lets out a laugh. the city, fast asleep awakens to laugh with him.

He is dreaming as he is moving. It is an illusion that is blinding him; though it is night time, he can see an evening sun. He can see people’s souls. It is the light of the day he is seeing, it is the arising of himself and within, it is the impact of pieces and lines, criticisms and kindness, all that he ignored and all that he gave away, all those who wanted him to change, to grow into a better person, to find a voice; yes, to a find a voice that is unique and powerful, with the power to shatter glass and to break hearts, in echoing streams of consciousness that would last the world forever and youthful wild. At least he thinks it is. And at that point, he wakes up. He is drenched in force, and he runs, far and miles away. the people call but he does not have the time. In reality he does not have the need. He runs far far far away. And he is never to return. he has great strangers hearts, he makes new ones. He has a love of his life. He has an aim and a voice, a blooming flower and a song of himself………


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