"Perhaps the only difference between me and other people, was that i always demanded more from the sunset, more spectacular colors when the sun hits the horizon. That’s perhaps my only sin."
I'm not interested in portraying beauty, nor reality which are within anyone's grasp. I like to see what lies beyond, and reproduce it transformed by my way of imagining.
Beautiful writings from a friend
Somewhere between my dreams the blue really begins. All the way across my thoughts you find yourself moving through a landscape severely fragile —each valley of bitter regret laid out after the soulless pattern, brilliantly lighted, human. But once you strike out from the flat and desolate mainland towards the sea of dreams and hopes, the land of irrational, you are aware of a change in the heart of things: aware of the horizon beginning to stain at the rim of your world: aware of islands coming out of the darkness to meet you. More you push them away, bigger they grow, and fast, until you start walking backwards, stumbling, falling down.
In the morning you wake to the taste of snow on the air, and climbing the walls of half asleep suddenly enter the shadow cut land of hills—each wearing its cracked crown of snow—desolate and repudiating stone. You wish to touch, it’s so inviting, the colors, reflecting mixture of rays, blinding and when you finally do, pierced skin, bleeds; warm scarlet liquid flows over your skin. It drips, makes red stains on perfect white dress.
You are aware not so much of a landscape coming to meet you invisibly over those blue miles of water but one mighty dark crystal; the form of things becomes irregular, refracted. Mirages suddenly swallow islands, and wherever you look the trembling curtain of the atmosphere deceive. Everything evaporates and turns to nothing. Is it really nothing, or just your soul is empty and impossible to recognize more shapes and colors than what is retracted in her past memory? Are you just one of those with history, but no past?
Really cruel and unimaginative is saying there is strict dividing line between the waking world and the world of dreams. We are just the sensation of being mere points of reference for space and time. We are utterly spoilt by the sun; it’s richness cloys and enervates. Our hearts are heavy brush-strokes of yellow and red with a touch of dusty purple explosions with languid lines of green and black. The mind is full of chatter and unexplainable sounds, but the quietness at times makes it another country.
A breath of rain and the sea grinding and crushing up its colours under ; the town gardens steaming in their rotten richness. Shuttered mansions with the umbrella pines rapping at the windows. On the great southern shelf you can see the road running white as a scar against the emerald lake; the olives are tacking madly from grey to silver, and behind the house the young cypresses are like drawn bows. Then at night it dies down suddenly and the colour washes back into the sky. At evening the blue waters of the lagoon invent moonlight and play it back in fountains of crystal on the white rocks ; pours over the window-sills and mingles with the scent of the exhausted lamps. It is so still that the voice of a man up there in the dusk under the trees disturbs and quickens one like the voice of conscience itself. Under the glacid surface of the sea fishes are moving like the suggestion of fishes—influences of curiosity and terror. And now the stars are shining down frostblown and taut upon this pure darkened, surface.
Reality is this dividing floor which falls away each morning when I am back on the warm rocks, lying with my face less than a foot above the dark sea. All morning i lye under dropping cherries into the sandy floor where they loom like drops of blood. Lamps filled with sweet cinnamon oil, peeling off in the sun. Devotion. Blinding. Feeling i could hide forever in this hill paced country of my wanderings and imaginations. Never coming back to the gray fogged realism.
? excuse you... you r everywhere
That happens when you are such an influent person :p