The Anonymous Inspiration

And again it happened
Drowned in the depths of my sorrows,
The darkest,
I contemplated my soul.

Lulled by the music of my thoughts
I let them fall, tears
Tears of sadness, tears of bliss.

And Death noticed them and came,
Her cloak dancing with the wind
And there was nothing else I could do
But wait.

Wait for the Angel,
The Angel of Death.

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Into Darkness

Their souls have died,
Their minds have gone.
Into the darkness
They go, undone.
In the Chaos I force myself
To dream of magical lands:
Drops of coffee, another drag,
And in the fog I move forward.

I feel their souls observing me
And the thoughts in their minds, echoing.
A ray of hope takes over me,
Oh! so fleeting.
In the Chaos I stand again.

I dream of magical lands
With seas of coffee and endless smoke
Where their souls, in the dark, shine
Where their thoughts, in the silence, rest.
Where has the Chaos gone?

I free their souls, I calm their thoughts
In the darkness I stand alone.

Enigmatic, painful love.

What is this feeling,
This tickle, overwhelming?
Never had he felt so delighted,
Nor had he been so shortsighted.

Why is this trouncing,
This tickle, aching?
He could feel the ghost of his past,
Springing up on him at last.

For decades he had not felt
The terrible, the lovely welt.
I have waited enough, I shall now say:
I love you boy, I will obey.

Live…

This is a very complex and difficult subject I chose to discuss tonight. I mean, all my writings are part of this subject to a certain extend, and this article may seem a little too general. I am not planning to write a novel yet, so I will try to be as brief as I can, without forgetting the main ideas that made me want to write this.

Recently, I talked to a very good friend of mine, and I explained him that I was afraid of not living for real. Indeed, I am always waiting for something in the future to come. Let’s take the example of my year in Dublin. Since I am in university, for two years now, I have been waiting for this moment, this special time when I finally go abroad. As I expect this trip to be special, I feel like all the time which separates me from September is “a waste of time”. I know I could make some efforts and try to enjoy every moment, but I just can’t. This scares me a lot because I am afraid this could happen to me for my entire life.

Also, I wanted to discuss another point which distresses me. How can you be sure that you are enjoying your life if you are not exposing the real you. We all have our secrets, things we hide to protect ourselves or others, or just because we don’t want to deceive people. Of course, we could learn to live with these secrets and reach a certain degree of happiness. However, as far as I am concerned, I am often wondering what would my life be if I revealed some of my secrets. Would life be better? I still have no idea. The only way to know is to tell the truth, to get real, considering any situation it may lead to, good or bad. As we say in France : C’est plus facile à dire qu’à faire!

What’s funny now is that at the exact moment when I am discussing “life”, my brother announces me that I am going to be an uncle in few hours. Anyway.

I know that I could work on these subjects, for myself, and try to make more efforts in participating in life, in enjoying every moment, in getting real and eventually live the life corresponding to my expectations. I just hope that I will be courageous enough to achieve this life before death grabs me.

I thought it could be interesting to tell you which songs I have been listening to while I was writing this article :
Radiohead – Fake Plastic Trees
Sigur Rós – All Alright
Sigur Rós – Von

Poem #1 : Forest, or the Death of Romanticism

ForestThere was a boy, his name was Tommy.
For a while, he thought he was happy.

A beloved child and friend,
A handsome and smooth talking teenager,
Who believed he would always succeed.

One day, he realized he was a thinker,
A poet, a singer…
Beauty was no more a matter.

Alone, he would lie for hours,
In a forest, near some flowers.

His friends recognized him no more,
Even his parents would ignore
The lonely boy curled up on the floor.

He was a loner, a dreamer,
A helpless romantic.
Frantic,
He isolated himself deeper.

Once, he entered a forest,
And never was he seen again,
For his thoughts caused his bane.