Dream away

Soñare, Sonyare, Soñar is a self-absorbed artistic current which, by delving into the intrinsically deep branches of realism, one enters into its convoluted and pious dissociative quality, when each of the elements that assure us of a truth vanish in the infantile and capricious motifs of dreams and the oneiric doors to the disconnected space of modes and the overloaded motes of experience decide. Will this be a pious nightmare or a heartbreaking dream. 

 I will delve, To volunteer to the confines of this own capacity to imagine and recreate in pastures never seen before, the repeated and recognisable idealisation of this subconscious that is trapped in the tops of the pines and willows, in this yellowish and bluish tundra that pierces the senses, the taste becomes acidly sweet and repulsive, the ear picks up non-existent vibrations and hears the indistinguishable as a parallel series of footsteps embedded in the membrane of the bark of this tree. Touch is reduced to a simple illusion where the wind is invisible and the rocks are impacted far from the own and determined capacities that the perimeter of man allows. Disgust is a feeling and not an action, in these dreams of truth and hope one only resorts to being trapped in a way instructed by the man of the cup himself, the one who drinks alone. He who is behind everything but always in the middle of the disaster, that man, me in this scarce case and hypothetical argumentative limbo, can only be summed up in an atrophied sense of mentality that disgustingly resolves in a simple text limited to his own language in a natural way, in an artificial way, in a unique and unrepeatable way, as if I wanted to see my ideas and thoughts again and resorted to the reforms of the space that surrounded me in, but not. My heartbeats are unique and uniform as well as my mirages and hallucinations, yes, as well as them. Nothing the same, never the same, ineffable and inexorable in any other universe but the perceptible one.

 And twists, twists all that is known as capable, in this diffuse line of conscious and waking sleep that only the ancient tagos could yearn for, only laments can sing and nothing else a true Zulo of fog and smoke could understand, sleep open and distant to dreams is to die in life and rise in the morning, In the blink of an eye the body despairs and creates its own virtuality, it has been doing it for years and will do it for years and even in those spherical and almost plutonic summits of the towers of knowledge one can observe these beings of light and metal wanting more and more of these dreams. All of this is a dream much had but little preserved barely required that resembles the real message of my fictional and almost lyrical message in state prose, a state that allows me to speak in my sleep and trance as it does now. 

 It is not a state of mania it is just the nature of the most sonorous depression that of an old keyboard sounding in accordance with my ideas and my visions, without opening my eyes my hands can know which letter is innately missing and without a single articulation being mentally manipulated, it is something, horrible how these mental principles of truth and lies are disportioned in Martian quantities and amounts in their highly accusatory totality. 

Disgust is a feeling and not an action, sorry, of course, it is a long process to heal a disgust, like mine with writing, as I detest and feel pure and unheated fervent hatred towards the texts of my hands, of my minds, of my eyes and souls, as I see I think and think how to see in a rectangular form to avoid those obnoxious false corners of the badly drawn quadrilaterals of my realities and the false squares of my confinements, it is in these states of maniacal compulsion where I feel more and worse in my desolate solitude, I have so much to talk about, I have so much to teach, I have so little time in my life to finish resolving all that pleases and distresses me that it unnerves me to think that my own life ends in a disguise ill-assembled and unequipped with any argumentative protection, so like a jester not concentrating on his story right now I look into the wooden rectangle only to find a pillar, a wooden one, a red and white wooden one, varnished, I think, yes, I know it's varnish, with all that it means, still. 

 And I absorb those marked and arcane influxes of French esotericism that taught me to listen to the covens of le'mosees if that terrible old man still lives or not, of course, I can also blame in a perfect way all the imperfect ones on the way that were only stones that were only stones that were spruced up on my ground, on my property, those small hands that even with their size try to grab you, and I don't know how to finish, I want to go on but I'm afraid of my own spirituality to do it, because I know myself better than anyone else and I know how much I let myself loose, in my dreams everything said of course, because I'm simple for my innate family and my fallacy of dirty vandal vandal jurisprudence entronero that is nothing more than an aristocratic pious lie in this dream, but still my nightmare is even better than this and anything else I could have thought of, I count the letters and the words and I count all the spaces, like a pin, I'm looking for a hole in all the haystacks in the world, but I feel so much pain that my great sister and my only sister and my beloved sister cannot be appreciated as I appreciate her courage and strength and her beauty and her charisma and all that surrounds her, as well as that veil of intelligence that I only perceive in my poet, I want to speak, I want to speak so much that even speaking I feel mute, I no longer know what to think about my own self-decision to be a maniacal regicide any more, no more. In these texts and Caprian archives I want to express this reddish feeling of shame at seeing my friends and brothers annoyed and disquieted with a bewildering life. I love more than I can imagine and my heart has already failed from all the blows it could have been enveloped in, no more, I ask for clemency for my crime of heart of love in passionate violence, no more. Please just please and if it stops. 

 I want to go, I'm ready.