We are not landscapes, skyscrapers, monuments. We are not static. In the silences between the words said and the words unsaid, the real silences - the truth gently rises to the top. The truth we are all too terrified to face. Maybe some of us have known the truth, some of us might have tried to believe in other truths, appropriate them, make them our own, crush the blue prints and gulp them down with soda.
There are no blue prints for this life. There is no map, no matter where you have booked your tickets to. There is no certainty, no matter what marriage vows you have made. There is nothing but you and I and this moment. Time, he is restless. He will not stand still, he will not wait. This moment, it is. It is. Ephemeral.
Then we close our eyes. The ceiling, the now. Tomorrow, we will be other people. Wearing other masks, feeling someone else’s hurt, lightening someone else’s load. But tomorrow, with certainty, we will other ourselves from ourselves. In somnolence, we disintegrate, sand through fingers - only to reintegrate, molecules intact, but never the same.
Tomorrow will come. And maybe, many other tomorrows. And maybe yesterdays will come to naught. And memories, faded polaroid pictures. Or plastic, burning; emitting that distinct smell that seeps into you and stays within you.
But now, Time will tell you. He is running to the door. And he is winking at you. He is mocking you. He is telling you things you do not want to hear.
You shut your ears, and pretend not to listen. Time is a clown, and we are all laughing our way through one big joke.
(via)
There are no blue prints for this life. There is no map, no matter where you have booked your tickets to. There is no certainty, no matter what marriage vows you have made. There is nothing but you and I and this moment. Time, he is restless. He will not stand still, he will not wait. This moment, it is. It is. Ephemeral.
Then we close our eyes. The ceiling, the now. Tomorrow, we will be other people. Wearing other masks, feeling someone else’s hurt, lightening someone else’s load. But tomorrow, with certainty, we will other ourselves from ourselves. In somnolence, we disintegrate, sand through fingers - only to reintegrate, molecules intact, but never the same.
Tomorrow will come. And maybe, many other tomorrows. And maybe yesterdays will come to naught. And memories, faded polaroid pictures. Or plastic, burning; emitting that distinct smell that seeps into you and stays within you.
But now, Time will tell you. He is running to the door. And he is winking at you. He is mocking you. He is telling you things you do not want to hear.
You shut your ears, and pretend not to listen. Time is a clown, and we are all laughing our way through one big joke.
(via)
No One Around to Hear It (demo) by Bo Harwood
Like the films of John Cassavetes, the music that Bo Harwood recorded is very special for reasons hard to explain. Raw, unrefined, yet holding tremendous emotional power within such simple musical structures, it beautifully complimented the unique work Cassavetes and company were creating in front of the camera.
By the time you are
by the time you come to be
by the time you read this
by the time you are written
by the time you forget
by the time you are water through fingers
by the time you are taken for granted
by the time it hurts
by the time it goes on hurting
by the time there are no words for you
by the time you remember
but without names
by the time you are in the papers
and on the telephone
passing unnoticed there too
who is it
to whom you come
before whose very eyes
you are disappearing
without making yourself known?
To the Present Tense, W.S. Merwin
by the time you come to be
by the time you read this
by the time you are written
by the time you forget
by the time you are water through fingers
by the time you are taken for granted
by the time it hurts
by the time it goes on hurting
by the time there are no words for you
by the time you remember
but without names
by the time you are in the papers
and on the telephone
passing unnoticed there too
who is it
to whom you come
before whose very eyes
you are disappearing
without making yourself known?
To the Present Tense, W.S. Merwin
Subscrever:
Mensagens
(
Atom
)
