Sound is the most enrooted of senses. Once it touches horizon of our daily lives, neglected emotional self, carved out by musicians, woodens our wrists. Water does not reject us. Brain stems under glass shutter and ear of a needle listens. Commas of emotional gradation, keepers of Time, sung in mad voices through the pipes, nest our prevented throat bells. Death is in each cup that we drink from. Death is in each object and grain of asphalt we walk on. Death and home Eternity is. Endless, split ornaments. Bleeding rivers unwrap our lack of skeleton. Our paraffin bodies melt.
Perception and language brought by Sartre de-spine water. Written word of our skeleton, separated from perceptual skin of our minds, allocates pixels of thoughts to which we own reality. Thoughts are our altar, reincarnation, rope and victory. Language opens soil. Language releases us into vanish.
Time is covered in bricks of a well. Each one of them is a stroke in a letter. A leaf, mud and Being in our echoing hands.
Visual art, poor life, low life, hundred years of waiting with optics in hands. I weep in the lack of steam. Color and form breathe sins. Walls of snuffed retina. Sorrow. Doom. No ladder to elements murders our soil. How can I separate that which breathes even when I am deaf? How can I astray fingers that boil, being its personification?
Emotion. A landscape of human thought. Thoughts meet Time. Thoughts become Time. If only they hosted linguistically deprived and were victory of meaning. Thoughts than would wooden up our chests, tongue out places one has never walked. Movement of astral bodies, vapor one's breath. Rhythm is set by the Sun, abyss of Timeline. Birth knows itself - liquid nothingness it is.
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How can emotions exist with already embedded words? Past ashes in us. Pencil of Self is a vacuum in motion. I am home again.
What is it like to emotionally perceive? Public decay tears soul apart. I was a brick in a binder of Third World War. I was dripping tears, scars of numerous incinerations. I was made for instincts, to be a pile of prevented throat bells. But water picked up my wound and peeled me in my leather. These words exist due to an open self, open wound. Because of a badly gassed throat...
Don't separate people from grief, sadness, sorrow...
They are carpets of all the centuries, at their length, falling out of the bones, bricks and crayons to red a thread. Wounds of reading. But God is even higher than goodness. To love is a mirror, to love is a verb. To love is language.
Language is a constant journey through life. It falls in rain and reveals the rain. Nature is wisdom. I love hearing language, I love hearing words and I love Silence.
Love speaks in the language of. Love ever always purifies. Poetry and art sound us. They help us understand what to outline, what to be sad about and what to imply.
Unfortunately, our daily habitat does not aspire to self release. We are results of AI algorithms. We are made to be a pre-set, not a self creation. Art is chaos. One is free to develop any theory, question names and abstract Beings. Psychologists do achieve freedom, but only those that liberate and purify man, not frame. Just like a concept or a thought of art, psychologists must be masters of mind… And what is being a master of mind if not being a philosopher... I pity you, 2019 psychology. Library is more helpful than your stupid fucking standardized words. Words must send one down zero of a well to come out as a ten. People approximate, people do not rest to listen. People cave in ever narrowing and keep on laughing when they meet… No conversations in souls, no soul to speak in. Enterprise of emotions does not want mankind to form one body of poetry. I am the sea, you are the water. I am the water, you are the sea... We cry for we need to swim.