My mind19:52 Oct 16 2008
Times Read: 679
As for my hobby I collect books, I have had the dream of owning my own library since I was young. I have always loved to read and to write. I am currently working on my second book and we shall see how that goes I am currently on chapter 4. My mother put me in kindergarten when I was 4 becuase I read the entire encyclopedia Britannica and was trying to explain it to her book by book. In 6th grade my mother had a specialist come into the school to do a mental evaluation and an Iq test. my Iq at the time was 153 with a collage reading,comprehension and language skill. Further he mentioned Not skipping me grades because I was emotionally stunted and didnt have the emotional capacity to be able to establish bonding or any sort of middle ground with kids my age thus resulting in anti social behavior. Since I had a photographic memory and the inability to have linear time perception he figured maybe I would learn to adapt from it. Since I think in pictures not in words or in concepts, there is a gap between my thoughts and my ability to verbally communicate them leading to a lack of interpersonal skills. So books have been my best friend from an early age because the words become pictures and the ability to write them our or type them to describe the pictures and such in my mind formed a bridge to communication. Books, art, music and learning everything I could get my hands on from belief to theory, practice, language, religion, philosophy and on and on. The cup is never full and the hunger is never quenched. When I read people as I often do, I see images, places, animals, colours, sometimes patterned lines or circles and each has a representation, a symbol as some call it an energy mark or signature. Some days I bridge that gap fluidly and communicate in poetic elegant language like crimson cascading down black marble stair cases to spill to the next step and pool before continuing on in it's crescendo. Seemingly from an endless source and unto no end presented.Other days it is like the still black flames that dance back and forth building in their meaning, in their holding with no translucent light and a cold heat. Such had no outside tap, nor spring to flow forth and such it builds to a great forge and such I become the weaver and the blacksmith. Once the bridge has been let down or built up, the words flow once more from the images to carress along keys and pen strokes on paper to fill endless pages and endles hours. Time times of the black flame I sit and draw, and my passion spring forth not from a common spring with dancing colour and images on canvases . White is the colour of no emotion, it is the colour of forgotten things that are slowly remembering and that first stroke on each page is like a horizon. At times it is the space for the blackness to bleed through, the doorway put forth to offer the page of remembrance that shall partake in it. It is the colour of frustration when where to begin is not the question itself but the answer and that once steady hand now quivering like candle light in an only estate makes that first mark. For the question and the answer are one of the same. All in the details so sift focus on the bigger, better now. Some say we all have virtues that need rending, with laws and systems ripped from the branches of life. The question is simple, do you know what your post entails, Do you serve a purpose or purposely serve? For what could be told better then thru lyrics of music. Mayhaps I am the malkavian or the Ravnos for lack of better idealogical terms. Mayhaps I am the very imbuement of insanity and the weaver of illusions into reality. Mayhaps In such I formulate and construct my own reality from a world of ideals one had yet to but tap into the passions springing forth to understand. Yet to comprehend the essence of this verbiage shall those fall short in the vicissitude of fate? Wind down you mind in the abolistic lore of a summer spent and a winter earned, and for the rest of us, is there really sunday? To wade naked into that bloody pool and place our hand on the big black book, to watch the knives zigzag between our aching fingers. Is thsi forth the world we indeed have created or the world we have learned to adapt to. Is the laws of man or nature the laws we are in the keeping of or are they illusions of guidlines, caste forth in a caress of hope that mayhaps we are all unique, different. Mayhaps yet we are both the more we are different, the more we are the same, the more we change the more we have stayed the same in the ever constant shifting thing called time. So where does this leave us? At the begining or the end, at that blank sheet of white canvas to make that first mark and create a horizon. To merge that ever shifting reference point in an ever shifting world of tides and undoes, thermals and forgotten thoughts. And yet who knows these things as well as I, so into the depth of the minds with debates and arguments and intellectual conversation put forth. Mayhaps to clutch that last shred of the bridge, that last stone of bonding and companionship on the endless sea of cascading tides. In the end of this mayhaps you have the answers and mayhaps you have the question. But it's all in the books and in the art and in the music isnt it? Each note, line picture phrase, a hundred ways to depict the same thing for the understanding of another and in such where does that leave myself? On the teetering edge of uncertainty or in the cascading embrace of knowing? "I've been crawling in the dark searching for answers"If I am consumed by the questions like a cancer, then I am burried in the silence of the answer" By myself.
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