THE RAPTURE IN BREATHING

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Before I proceed,

don’t think dirty,

and warn your cells to behave

because what I will write

is not about your pleasures,

but mine.

 

And these are the pleasures I feel...

when I paint...

my being keeps still,

amid the hues,

against the backdrop of whiteness.

Where there is only me

and my God, 

nothing else ever exists,

no one else.  

Because between the space of this God and me,

is a blur

until I drown in Him and He drowns in me

in Numinosum.

As Carl Jung said: Nuemen, Nuere,

my God is within me.

I open my eyes and I see the goodness of heaven.

Magnified, mystified

in the colors of love,

in my mind,

in one

with my canvas.

 

 

There’s pleasure , too, when I write.

as I see the hysteria of goodness

of looking through

wrestling In a blank space but which is not.

I grope for words but not

In an emptied mind, because

I write what I experience,

I write what I feel

anywhere and everywhere

asleep or not,

alive and burnt out dead...

in ecstasy. Until the words explode

In my head then bind my heart into life,

until the euphoria of writing wraps into the living.

Until the words become verses of life

and not only in a poem.

 

 

There is pleasure in music.

As it distracts the pleasantries of the living,

It distracts yet it pleases.

It pleases, it pleases,

until I feel I am the song.

Until it echoes love yet it echoes hate.

Of hope. Of longing. Of desperation.

Of dream.

While the mind raptures in agony

in heaven,

and in hell.

Because where can I find tremendous explosion

of harmony in the living

Sometimes its only the music

to blame why human beings act.

That way. Of the dreamt. Of the scared. Of the insane.

 

 

What else is there in my pleasures.

 

 

Work?

This is when brain reacts

And finds the intellect useful

And makes me wonder why I can do such things,

Mundanely.

And in the fight of things,

This is all I can say, eat my dust, baby.

 

 

JANE ARRIETA EBARLE

sometimes it is nice to be lost in a world of confusion becasue it generates something such as this.


serenity's picture

Reading the post somehow

Reading the post somehow took me inside your heart. Like I'm feeling how you felt.

 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

http://itsathornedrose.blogspot.com/