i wanted to write the yellow of your iris, not brown, or hazel or blue. the yellow of your iris because it sounds good. no other reason in particular. yellow sounds much better. and when you look at me, i can see the shine in the yellow of your iris.
i have been refraining from blogging frequently; not that i do not have anything to say anymore. it is more of a dialogue that i keep having inside my head, the yellow of my iris. i keep having these mono-chromic conversations, what does it even mean, to have a mono-chromic conversations? but i am going to write it anyway, because it sounds good. i have been having these mono-chromic conversations as i pass by the poplar trees, the rustling green is having an affair with the invisible. i can feel it in my bones. i stole that phrase, feel it in my bones from a movie. i steal a lot. sometimes i return it back, sometimes i forget, and sometimes i bury it down . what am i talking about: memories? heartbreaks? sufferings? not really. these are what i call mono-chromatic conversations. but really, what are these? i have known about the affair for quite a long time and i have become a part of this affair. not one day goes by, when i wonder, but what?
the rustling brown is never worthy, it cracks, crumbles down and falls in love with the ground. the breezing hallucinations of momentary leaps of joys, rummaging through the drawers, but whose? i. what are these hallucinations that keep recurring but can hallucinations recur? but what should i make of these recurrences, these blaring sight of irony, an old soul hanging, limping down on a bud somewhere, as the yellow of my iris wanders around the blues of your heart.
i have heard they sing songs of clarity, sometimes with that insane audacity to be proud of the melodies that gets strung out of the cords of your heart. i have heard they ring bells of profanity, sometimes with that sane wisdom, that sane sanity of humanity. they call for attention, but of whose? the yellow of my iris wanders around these infinite rumors of belief and faith, old paths that no longer remain. that no longer rings any bell. that no longer allows human intrusion. or perhaps, the trodden path no longer howls.
what is this? i believe. i try to gather all the fluttering, phosphorescent and make wings out of them. what is phosphorescent? i will use it any way; because i like the sound it makes in my mouth. i like the way it makes me feel porous, like i could soak up all the warmth, and hug someone. i like the sound it makes. but more than anything, i love you. but what is this? i ask. or perhaps, not ask. and you answer, that, my dear, is what people call madness.
astounding! i can see the white of the nomad clouds and i ask them, what is the purpose? bottomless. and i ask, what is the faith? infinite? perhaps. and i ask, what is the answer? silence. silent. silent.
have i come to an end?
i have been refraining from blogging frequently; not that i do not have anything to say anymore. it is more of a dialogue that i keep having inside my head, the yellow of my iris. i keep having these mono-chromic conversations, what does it even mean, to have a mono-chromic conversations? but i am going to write it anyway, because it sounds good. i have been having these mono-chromic conversations as i pass by the poplar trees, the rustling green is having an affair with the invisible. i can feel it in my bones. i stole that phrase, feel it in my bones from a movie. i steal a lot. sometimes i return it back, sometimes i forget, and sometimes i bury it down . what am i talking about: memories? heartbreaks? sufferings? not really. these are what i call mono-chromatic conversations. but really, what are these? i have known about the affair for quite a long time and i have become a part of this affair. not one day goes by, when i wonder, but what?
the rustling brown is never worthy, it cracks, crumbles down and falls in love with the ground. the breezing hallucinations of momentary leaps of joys, rummaging through the drawers, but whose? i. what are these hallucinations that keep recurring but can hallucinations recur? but what should i make of these recurrences, these blaring sight of irony, an old soul hanging, limping down on a bud somewhere, as the yellow of my iris wanders around the blues of your heart.
i have heard they sing songs of clarity, sometimes with that insane audacity to be proud of the melodies that gets strung out of the cords of your heart. i have heard they ring bells of profanity, sometimes with that sane wisdom, that sane sanity of humanity. they call for attention, but of whose? the yellow of my iris wanders around these infinite rumors of belief and faith, old paths that no longer remain. that no longer rings any bell. that no longer allows human intrusion. or perhaps, the trodden path no longer howls.
what is this? i believe. i try to gather all the fluttering, phosphorescent and make wings out of them. what is phosphorescent? i will use it any way; because i like the sound it makes in my mouth. i like the way it makes me feel porous, like i could soak up all the warmth, and hug someone. i like the sound it makes. but more than anything, i love you. but what is this? i ask. or perhaps, not ask. and you answer, that, my dear, is what people call madness.
astounding! i can see the white of the nomad clouds and i ask them, what is the purpose? bottomless. and i ask, what is the faith? infinite? perhaps. and i ask, what is the answer? silence. silent. silent.
have i come to an end?
