Here’s a recent discovery of mine: Vienna Teng. Her songs have a particular ring to them, so I think I’d recognize a song of hers even without having heard it previously. Most of all I love the true poetry her songs embrace. Simply moving!
I wake up. I walk the streets and the corridors. I eat. I talk. I think I make a change… but at the same time I’m just a blob moving on the surface of another blob.
I finish my last chapter. I’m put 6 feet under. I wait… and I wait. I slowly lose some consistency. I become a mush, then sticks. Then time sings to me Queen’s “Under Pressure” song. I get compressed and turn, over the millennia, into something more dense… I’m dark now. I occupy only 1dm3.
I move again. I merge, I dance… it’s the slowest dance I know.
I’m being stabbed. I’m being moved. I’m out, I can see light again. It’s a different world, with different creatures. Hmm… time or no more time?
I’m being moved… I’m being processed. Now I weigh even less… I occupy even less volume. Reduced to the max, some would say.
And then, more moving, more mixing, more dance. Salsa, fascinating rhythm!
I’m inserted in the stomach of an exceptional machine. The creatures need machines. I’m being used. Ironic, isn’t it?
I burn! Is this hell? Doesn’t feel like it. But at least I helped the creatures move 10km. It’s nice to be useful. As for the rest of the journey, there will be other like me…
I escaped fire and I still exist?… Wow. And I can fly. I spread. I dance… and it’s ballroom dancing this time. I love it.
Oh… I’m approaching one of the creatures. Does he want to dance with me? Yes! He touches me… he breathes. He breathes part of me in. I’m not oxigen, but he doesn’t care.
Now part of me lives inside a creature and we dance every day. In 2 years, I will kill him.
“I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.” ― Mark Twain
On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,
“There is nothing I like more.”
Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor –
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents worth –
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feather bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore –
Only this and not much more.
Then my pickled poet cried out, “Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!”
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I’ve wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty.
Put an end to that damned ditty – then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped – and smashed it on the floor.
When the great man learns the Way, he follows it with diligence;
When the common man learns the Way, he follows it on occasion;
When the mean man learns the Way, he laughs out loud;
Those who do not laugh, do not learn at all.
Therefore it is said:
Who understands the Way seems foolish;
Who progresses on the Way seems to fail;
Who follows the Way seems to wander.
When the silence of the night is so laud,
that dreams fade away and become shadows,
when the heart feels heavy like a gray cloud,
that needs to quench the thirsty sorrows,
don’t be afraid, nor sad! Don’t doubt!
The sun will rise and bless the beautiful tomorrows.