Blue has many shades.

Smart words! Smart words!
Escaping my windows!

How to relish the fog? Or the smog where I’m concerned??

In pursuit of a silent movie I’m walking a mile. With sneakers on for comfort. But it’s biting into my vocabulary. And I do not attempt to lie. Sense is not construed in untruthful sentences.

Took the painters advice and bought some cushion for lying down.
Next to a few mythological dreamers. We had a lot in common. All our words lacked gender and tense.
Lacked even the viable strands of times’ errors. Words on words. Not a line spoken. All through the tentacles of the dictators of the silver screen projections.
Not the directors. They are content being ghosts. Driving home language instead of limousines.

I was not interested in languages. Nor were my mythological dreamers. It was the grail of ultimate letters in tow, we were after. Letters in tow.

The weight it yielded was light. Only the esoteric group of welcomed bystanders were heavy, seeped in misplaced profits!

Misplaced profits! The guffaws of the banks ware hardly cynical. They too succeeded in comprehending the dreamers’ dream. The mythology of words.

Found words are far too boring. I was going on and on about the languages I could not speak. Illiteracy in the guise of ignorance.
The lost words are the real interest.
Free of morality, they operate beneath our/my radar. Copulating hazardously. Practicing incest. Dying in orange pools of slow blues numbers. Orange!

I discovered a new author this morning. He wrote pretty poems too. I felt his pain. Died his heroes’ death. Cries his widows tears. Understood all his poetic allusions, and the realm between the lines. His words were mine. I knew them all too well. He just said them with more style and panache.

He never bothered to invent.

Nor did she.

The only time I collapsed attempting the revival of the unknown linguists, was also the last time I lost my mind in straight sets to an under confident player of the arts. Why did I never call for a challenge?

Being doomed to the paths of the less knighted, dwelling in the soft glows of the green lights, the long sentences I omit are forgotten by the deep sea publishers.
Growth to the wandering babbler. Hail the unreasonable household rambler.
The pioneers of the fantasy. Of discoverable words.

Orange, live, in silence, no longer rotting in water bottles, under the plastic covers we laid it to sleep on. Seeping fast into the shoes I wore in search of the silent movie.
Comfort, the vocabulary is now preserved within the envelops of the gallery walls.

Cyan waters – cerulean mud – robin egg blue imagination – teal bells ringing – viridian stones gathering paintings to quench the unattainable thirst of colour contrasts.

Wish me the courage to imagine new letters being towed!

Of confusion, destiny, illusions, and sounds.

Sounds are the integral system of confusion.
Fearing the cacophony, the jingles of confusion are born.

Noises from the vocals of a reason ravaged generation. That is it that is so different from the lonely hobos of the yesteryears as opposed to their counterparts today. They sing in the same alleys, similar songs. Of love, riches, roofs and subway tickets.

Is Mr Sen correct in describing the illusions of destiny in a 198 paged book? Rather simplistic I feel. But probably not.
What I feel is ignorance is also the flip side of the beatific illusion called destiny.
I am inspired by Mr Sen.

So how is it that I aspire to relate sound, confusion and destiny?
Its rater simply depends on the following of the colours.
Dolphins and glassy water.
Scarlet windows beaconing me to climb a little lower into the water and attempt to touch the skies way below.
Not the reflections of the northern clouds but the reality of such illusions.

Thus comes the tap on the big doors of destiny fixed into contorted shapes…
Contorted shapes….
Confusing shapes…

Now that is where it struck me that these shapes were way too busy with vivid sounds to care for the reason ravaged voices.
Fear of the cacophony binds the strings of paralysis.

Waves crashed onto the brown rocks wearing the crowns of a thousand rich kings.
I stood on the realm of this kingdom.
Intoxicated, floating on the noises, confused, dazed, like a poor song, sung on the galleries of to few, attacked my the misers of the deaf.

The only connection between the noises that gave me this illusion of a confused destiny was a lyric. Which one, I forget. But it was lucid, mercury, and a silence of green eyes.

Orange windows and ice showers.
Ice mints in my mouth.
Ice mints in my mind.
Ice - ice - ice

I’m sweating snow!