In the early morning, there are still so many things left unresolved in the heart. If only I could let darkness grow into me, it is only in that small eternity that I feel complete. In the restless night, when all of Earths’ creatures reveal their inner-most Secret. For diurnal animals, this is the innocence of sleep, for plants, this is the gentle power of their upward striving. What is that Secret? The Secret that is somehow sensed but never comprehended? Was it what all the men of ancient days laid waste to the world for? Most of humanities history has been subjected to the Law of the imaginable, the unseen, it speaks loudest through the warm blood pulsing under the skin and to the loins full of milk. And do people remember this? Certain illumined individuals understand this early, but most only hear it for the first time at the end of their confused and crooked path. Sometimes, for the shining ones, the imaginable breaks through and caresses their senses, they hear the Voice, as Jean d’Arc, or see the Vision as Francisco d’Assisi. Some are just destined, accidental shamans. And what is imagination? Imitation? Imitari. It is an unworthy contender for the serious magic of the inter-subjective reality it points towards. Vorstellungskraft. Phantasy.

The power to resemble what the heart perceives…

The Honeysuckles, the sky is almost cloudless and the Heavens burn brightly in strength and radiance. I look to the North and the empty beach continues through the horizon. I turn to the South and the beach passes through yet another point de fuite. Gold becomes white and is increasingly scattered upon the surface of that great and infinite Ocean. The many small shrubs nestled in the sand-dunes are softly stirred by the North-Easterly breeze. And… what has become of me? The unserious has somehow captured me, made me lighter, stand taller and straighter. Summer has brought complete immersion and to stoop over, writing blackened ideas on white pages feels, in some ways, foreign. I have been robbed of the fantastic, inward-royalty and my surroundings have reduced me to a man. Cautious and sustained by borrowed things. And maybe all creations are moments of rest. Portals into enduring energies. That force beyond us, which moves the brush and relaxes the jaw. And we become sacrificial vessels filled to the brim, with nothing. And then everything surrounding becomes the altar – the eternal ornament. Channeling awareness into specific, isolated things – to observe and contemplate it’s mystery, for a little while. This makes living profound. Not happier, clearer, sadder or fearful. But shocking and dumb-founding. Makes the universe vast and the heart small.

Desire is the memory of our future.

The Elbe rolled almost motionless throughout the metallic scented silvery sky. And the priest in sordid matrimony, with the ritual linen hung about, for all to see, the words of the dark-eyed boy that slandered the dead gods. Inside the Lutheran mother, it did not matter. For what is alabaster to chrome? Whitened concrete to porphyry? And not a soul then stirred in the wide streets of Dresden. And from far across the Elbe, strange sounds had came, and strange sounds stayed. Despite all this painful fragmentation, one will discover that blinding, traffic light abiding principle, inherent in the toil of each and every step. Toil was the cure, but also the illness for these plaintive folks.

Out of the entire pantheon of gods and goddesses, of the mythic and mystic beings that have dominated human imagination since the birth of time, I know this much; whoever was the highest priestess of Love, whoever sung the fever of longing into the animal heart… she had sung in Turkish.

and the song that caused Gods bewildered and primal breath to gasp upon the dancing, black waters… was sung in Tamil.

Except for 10 seconds, I have always known that I shall die an old man. He looms behind me, sternly overseeing my actions. At times with an eyebrow raised, other times, still and cold, but maybe proud, just not revealing it, the same way most old men are. It seems most of my endeavours are attempts of digging up mud and with appeasing hands, holding mud up before his lucid eyes for him to witness, so as to prove I did not waste his time and that he will not die alone, devoured by the cancer or regret.

And there are moments when we must drown in the river of Lethe.

All that I thought was familiar to me, gathers around me, looks upon me, blank and feelingless, like the way strangers stare.

The ultimate fruit of good music is catharsis.

The heavenly heart lies between Sun and Moon. In the purple hall of the city of Jade, dwells the God of Utmost Emptiness and Life. The ancestral land. The dark pass. Silently, thou fliest upward in the morning…

Like King Wen of Zhou – the vanguard, never seeing the harvest, glancing from afar into the promised land. Thankless work. And it is said, that if one is sincere, blood vanishes and fear gives way. Only then, you are blameless. Peering into a cloud-filled sky, waiting for what you have been longing for. But it does not appear, and you gaze sorrowfully into the horizon. Accompanied only by the whirling of cicadas and, rarely, the eagle that glides through the glinting rays of Heaven.

the pint that you spend your last few dollars on, is always the tastiest pint.

Balance is making the contrast equanimous. Harmony is becoming the contrast.

The Path is not easy. And yet, easy is the Path.

Without sorrow – Xuanzhang said – without sorrow. Standing small beneath the great stone pillar. Palace city of fragrant flowers – now dust. Flowers, colourful, prosperous, bloomed irrecoverably, when the human lifespan was of countless years. Old royal city, built by spirits for a child. And after moving the capital from Rājagṛha, Aśoka designed a Hell upon Earth.

Every object is instilled with its own secret fate.