When the wind stops blowing for you to celebrate your lapse, you know that you owe something to the unknowns.
In my imagination, there is a celebration where colors are racing towards me and I am trapped in a whirl. I want to touch each of these - in my hands is always some wind. In my imagination, I am alone with whispers coming from the unknown and voices going away. I must be dreaming, I must be truly alive.
Another ornamental lapse enters silently and takes me in my corner. My eyes are covered with mud; this layer of mud is now a wall between the light of reality and the light of an interval. There is no end to this moment, it is here to be absorbed completely. This lapse is empty, to the point that it is complete. I am frozen in my freedom, smelling the wall of mud.
When the wind starts blowing to remind you of your senses, you know that you owe something to the unknowns.
Shringi
27 - 04 - 2013
In my imagination, there is a celebration where colors are racing towards me and I am trapped in a whirl. I want to touch each of these - in my hands is always some wind. In my imagination, I am alone with whispers coming from the unknown and voices going away. I must be dreaming, I must be truly alive.
Another ornamental lapse enters silently and takes me in my corner. My eyes are covered with mud; this layer of mud is now a wall between the light of reality and the light of an interval. There is no end to this moment, it is here to be absorbed completely. This lapse is empty, to the point that it is complete. I am frozen in my freedom, smelling the wall of mud.
When the wind starts blowing to remind you of your senses, you know that you owe something to the unknowns.
Shringi
27 - 04 - 2013
