mystery in reality

 Pulled by the reminiscence of the ghostly wind he drifted further away from the beach and into the endless compass of the open ocean. To crave adventure without purpose was madness, but he did it with an air of disdain for the laws that pulled a crowd that watched him "go to his death" as they thought while watching his boat fade slowly as it receded further into the horizon. He wished to run, a dozen times he chose to turn back and flee to the comforting land devoid of frequent motion. But he stayed on, his courage shaped up by the unsaid confirmation that aligned with his instinctive thoughts to flee for safety. Down to the core of his soul, to the marrow of what gave him life, he could find no true purpose for why he was out here, regardless of the lies he told his friends. He couldn't find reason to convince himself of the need for sailing into the dangers of sanguine waters. Now he faced and empty expanse of water with the big fat truth Moving in all angles as he ma...

 He sat staring at the horizon, burdened with the discretion of his broken heart. A scenery of the prelude to his problem made a tear escape the bank of his eyes. Mid air he caught it in skillful motion. He stared at the tear, coaxed by the thought of the possibility of a bleeding mind, he smiled. Melancholy has always been the threat to his comfort. Again he was left alone, burned, scarred, and left to yet again another uncharacteristical flow of questions of his odd nature. But somehow he felt nothing, till his mind replayed events passed that brought nothing but sorrow. A stigma of pain planted in his mind, memories wished to be forgotten but burned to the brain. He wished his mind could bleed, maybe he would forget and finally breathe, or the blood from his mind will bring releaf just like the tears of the eyes. That's what they say. But his stubborn mind seemed to find Joy in such lousy alternatives it provided. So he drowned himself in liqour, numming the mind, temporarily w...

 Speaking into the darkness conceives a silent feedback before a series of emotions. It is easier for the voice to travel with no intention to return which on the long run is picked by the receiver that decodes it. Into the darkness is a deep portal operating under the mask of one mediator with jars, which supposedly capture the events of a strenuous day. Slowly it empties the jars into a dark clay basin before conducting the activities rising at such an ungodly hour. So do people, their insecurities, weaknesses and defenses begin to rise up, giving the Shadows the greater odds. Heavy! The eyes begin. It's time to surrender to what it dreads— Dark clouds with spectral fingers tormenting an innocent soul. But this is where it begins, more like where it ends. Even the shadows have a breaking point tied to their strings of mythology. There is no transparency to what is concealed by hopelessness. Clearly the one who governs the night dictates whatever the mind envisions to its full ma...

 The only peace found in solitude, he believed was In the middle of the black, no room for shadows or light. The total Consumption of all sounds and light, a drawn breath of quiet. The flowing thoughts swam, reaching for the sky, overflowing in the timeless void of nothingness. The calm, soothing to the mind free for good reason, welcoming to the thoughts off shore to the norm. In a world where he believed was reverse, 'lost in the light, found in the dark'. Where the night crawlers sinned without remorse. A salvation it was to his sanity, cruel to his adamant nature but foul to those critic to the way his mind worked. He felt lifted, caressed by the ghostly pressure of the presence of no one but the black, a call?, a pull? A certainty that was a soothing serenity of a peaceful bliss emanating by the isolation of himself coaxed by his want for adapt quiet of the dark.  M¿ster¿°°°

 Sitting on a table a bottle of scotch gave an elaborate lecture twisting and turning the mind, almost as if the world was his again. Sitting behind misfortune there is a chain tied to our ability to cradle the blindest truths and  the plainest lies. Intoxication, a scissors to the fabric that holds together our sanity and our personality. Maybe it was within, maybe a play of internal mind games. The flow of parables, an uncertainty coming from the throbbing manifestation of the living scotch, matching the above statement as a bewilderment.  So he remained focused, in awe of this enlightenment. The turns turning to swirls. Is it possible our true nature is forced out by intoxication? Then what kind of lies are they called when we make the outcome our truth? A false face worn one to many times the real one becomes forgotten.  What then do we do, except remain in a false parody.  Pour down another glass friend , it said in a caressing warm voice, I shall tell you ...

 Some of us are pawns Some of us are rooks Some of us are kings Guarded by our knights Some of us are tools In a game of queens Some with abilities to leap over obstacles While some can adapt no matter the circumstance Some fight regardless Others fight to guard Others are holy with minds of bishops But in the end we protect what we love Some leave to serve Others exist to be served Black or white Good or bad We all fight the same battle Only in reverse M¿ster¿°°°

 A struggle to a point of death The line drawn by the fates, red! Closure done with a final breathe A path for those who seek themselves To unravel that which we seek A simple plea to the forces unseen Under the soft gaze of their benovelance There we find evalasting silence.  Clustered forms of signs and gestures The hidden truth in loops and puzzles A journey with its end death?  Our denouement, the power of the tongue.  Answers tied to a fatal sacrifice  Paralleled Mysteries  Another endless dirge.  M¿ster¿°°°

 In the galore of those who where stunning, gorgeous, pretty and beautiful. There was one who he crowned goddess and she was seated across the room. Cross legged and deep in the realm of her book, she reeked of mystery. The occasional drift of her attention pulled by the strings of insignificant chatter, was a boxing match occuring with his heart. There was an austeric manner to the simplest things, or movement she displayed and he was filled with awe when she looked at him even for a mili second. What is love? What is obsession? What is lust? He was totally fixated on her but to damn scared to do anything. Tea or coffee, muffins or sweet bread every day he will come just to watch the lady who sat in her usual spot across the room. It was a thing he believed he could do forever but those dreams were halted by a kiss.  Not to him but a lucky man who conjured a smile so beautiful, so peaceful. That it amended his broken heart.  M¿ster¿°°°