Getting Back in the Habit (comments welcome)

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Postby nimbus » Sun Sep 02, 2007 1:25 am

Brought It back when I'd something to say.

Sometimes I cant sleep because its eating me away.
Sometimes things in life mirror my own, and I watch my life unfold in other peoples.
Sometimes I know that my own troubles and and pain are the same that each of us goes through. Sometimes that doesn't make it hurt any less. Or any more. That word is missing a space I think. It should be anymore, but it wont be. I cant sop up the blood that flows from where my heart was, like tears from the stormy sky over a raging wild fire. They say that Love comes from the heart.

I think it really comes from somewhere else.

Somewhere South of where we are,
Somewhere east of where we are going,
Somewhere West of who we are.
Somewhere North of forever.

I wish I knew somewhere to go that I could find out where tomorrow was, so I could look at all the things that would happen and know that for each bad thing that happens to all the good people, that so many wonderful, everyday miracles are happening. That smiles still shine, that hearts are still in love through it all. That children play, voices sing and the long lost are found. They say that we all live in the same world.

I think we really live the same lives.

Somewhere South of similarity.
Somewhere east of identity,
Somewhere West of companionship
and Somewhere North of friendship.


They say that we all have questions. I know that I dont have the answers
But I do know that I would give anything to be able to make an impossible voyage. The kind all those famous explorers made. When everyone said it couldn't or shouldn't be done.

I too have somewhere to go.

Somewhere South of Yesterday,
Somewhere East of the wrong thing to say.
Somewhere West of that day.
Somewhere north of Forever.

Forever. I used to believe in Forever, here in the now.
When two people could reach across this wounded time and touch each other, and Know, Forever. Let me Tell you about how much you give up to o reach that far. And How far you fall when there is no one there reaching back.

You fall.

Somewhere South of sorrow,
Somewhere East of agony
Somewhere West of regret
Somewhere North of Forever.

But you don't Die. No one ever does. Its realizing that where you fallen to is this struggling world, and that something more than this tired crawling has been denied you, that this somewhere is normal, that this somewhere is real life. that this wandering alone wont ever end. And you find yourself.


Somewhere South of Love.
Somewhere East of Freindship
Somewhere West of Content.
Somewhere North of Forever.

~N


"I am the wanderer, are you so surprised to see me again?"
~the Wanderer~
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Postby nimbus » Tue Oct 30, 2007 1:29 am

~~I wonder if anyone ever reads this?~~

Sometimes I think that everything was better when I was younger.

Sometimes I wonder, Was it those things that where better,Or was it I that was better.

I guess there are memories of what we did and of how we felt, that are all stored in our minds.

Sometimes I wonder if they dont get mixed up sometimes.. if all the good things dont slowly become associated with each other, and all the bad things as well. So that, as we become older, everything that is good that we remember, becomes slowly better, glossed with age and the mixing of memory, and if the painfull things do the same, steeping forever in the wake of each past hurt.

Sometimes, I wonder if we could forget not the things we did, but how we felt when we did them, if we would react the same ways we do now.
I know some people say that past hurts armor us for the pain to come, and that past joys point the way to new, But there is no way to keep those past hurts from welling up at each new wound, or to keep from looking back and comparing at each new joy.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen If we could experience each new joy as and on its own, and deal with each hurt on its own... a thousand first kisses, undending love at first sight?.. of course this risks a thousand fist break ups and a hundred deaths of a loved one.. but what price the truth of who we are? What price an end to living in the past, an end to the glow of past glories dimming the triumphs of today?
Sometimes I wonder.

<<wtb comments>>
~the Wanderer~
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Re: Getting Back in the Habit (comments welcome)

Postby nimbus » Fri Feb 27, 2009 1:46 am

Resound.
They say life is like a song. A song that is unique to each person. Each voice mixing into a great chorus. A vision of notes, flowing over the hills, soaring on wings across endless clouds like a frozen ocean. It is Antiphony resonating from the ocean floor, and echoing from the canyon walls. Each voice the single note of a tuning fork, tuned by life, by love, and hate, by joys and fears to resonate a single sound. As the waves of sound travel through air, so to, the waves of our song travel, each one setting into movement the waiting motion of another, each one reaching across the vastness of our lives to touch others in a vast circle, ever expanding. Each kindness done, each wrong inflicted, each breath of laughter, each tear of pain, reverberating, causing those around us to resonate anew; just as they in turn amplify, and modulate our song. Yet who are we who sing? What is the nature of our song? It is every word and deed, each thing and thought that we express throughout our days, our nights, our lives.
What have you done today or Tonight or This week or this year even this decade? How has your song reached out others? Have you caused the deep tones of loss, the bright soaring hymns of joy? Havve you quelled the groaning dirges of terror, with your gentle chorus of peace? Have your hands held out sonatas of love, or driven down the grating timbre of hate? Did you hear the melodies of your life? Did you mix its swelling waltz with the grand symphony of humanity? Perhaps you stood and where quiet, trying desperately to regain your own notes, amidst the clash of others resonations. Or, maybe, just maybe, you where one of those who song drew all around them to listen, and song. Did your life resound? Did others around you draw strength form your melodies, and courage from your harmonies? Did they take what you gave out as good, and reverberate it again and again?

Did you resound? Was your life that endless waltz, that quiet symphony of thunder that draws us all like moths to the flame? Did your life echo across endless hills and whisper across the trackless plains? Did your life stir the hearts of those who listened, lifting them to greater things? Did they take your song as their own, echoing the truth you had shown across their world? Did you resound?
~the Wanderer~
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Re: Getting Back in the Habit (comments welcome)

Postby nimbus » Fri Feb 27, 2009 2:23 am

At First the day.
Through the clouds, slowly descending along the hills we rise, the chill of the morning caressing us, as castles, and dungeons made of crystallized dreams swirl by us we rise. As the earth drops away, the sky becomes the land, and the heavens become the sky. As blue as forever, as deep as hope. beneath us ow, the clouds, likwe the stuff of legends, piles of gossamer silver, and curried gold, set afire by the blaze of the sun, as she slowly sinks into the sea of storms, the home of thunder and the resting place of rain. The pace of our passage whips the air against us, each wisp of cloud a chill reminder of the sleeping earth so far from our sight. the clouds below us mimic the shape of that earth, forming lace hills and crystalline canyons, down which we dart, daring each shadowed valley to dare reveal the earth beneath. As the sun slowly sinks away, the landscape of sliver and gold streaks with the colors of fire, each gossamer hillock catching to riotous flame, each straggling cumulus wisp a billow of fire.

And then the night.
Above us in our flight the stars sprinkle the sea of clouds below with a million jewels. The moon rises as we do, arcing to his place in the sky, and painting the shadowy clouds with the silvery quicksilver gray that gleamed there the first night. Colder now, the wind reminds us that now we soar were we are reminded of the passage of time, our flashing flight across the endless sea of stars a mirror dance of life, our bright forms flashing but for a moment across the painted tapestry of this life, darting between the silver veil of yesterday, and the sparkling depths of forever. Beneath us now, the Piled clouds, standing in shape like towers, calling us to think of the earth, hidden beneath them, sleeping cities and towns, the turmoil of life waiting to awaken, once the night passes on,

And then the Day returns.
And we Rise. Higher now, the golden promise of the new day painting the edge of the atmosphere, a glided sheild above sleeping vilalges, famrs and palces where life is stirring, waking to the new day. But we rise. ARcing now to the edge of space, the endless velvet cold whispering to us, the firey touch of the sun reaching out to warm us throguh the last breaths of this earth, we rise. The stars are shining, a million colors, a thousdand and one riotus constellations greet us as liftfre eof this life, and stretch our selves, aiming like a great soaring mountain, or the hands of cheering crown, stretching, reaching for the heavens, flying free to forever, we Rise.

Into the night.
The night of infinite stars, of vast wheeling splashes of color and great echoing swathes of cold emptiness. this is the night that whispers to us that it saw us when we where born, and it will watch us as we travel, and never forget us, no matter how far we rise. The Sun is there now, closer warmth on our faces, as we flash by, a last farewell to that light which nourished us as we grew, and waited for us to rise, so that it would know its task was done. Below us the earth sleeps, turing forever in its ballet of day and night. No more time for us, now as we rise, no seasons, no sleeping or waking, no death, no birth. Here those terms have ceased to have meaning,

As we rise.
Into forever, into what will come after. Into the dawn of a new day, its warmth beckoning us to come to earth, to rest in golden fields, walk by silvery streams and dance amidst the gentle rains. A new sun shines among us, its light awakening us, and its rays stirring the earth into new life. For a day and days we would rest, weary form our flight, Walking in peaceful valleys of daylight, and sleeping beneath the gentle night.

Night of new stars,
Of new tomorrows, of the promise of awakening in a place where everything is possible, and hearts will dance and all will rise. Rise to meet the new sun, rise to greet the dawning of a new day, a new future, a new tomorrow, a new forever. A forever of golden suns, and slivered nights, of gentle rains and where the clouds over which we rise will shine like nothing we have ever seen, and the sun will be as bright as our dreams.

Dreams in which we Rise.
~the Wanderer~
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Re: Getting Back in the Habit (comments welcome)

Postby nimbus » Fri Feb 27, 2009 2:48 am

Inspiration and Imagination

I believe in you, whoever you are, Even if you think life is over, even if you think that there's nothing left, that what you have suffered is the end of days, the end of meaning for your life, for the world as you know it. I tell you, don't. It's not over, not yet. It is within you, and me, each of us, to go on, no matter what the day might bring. No matter what we might feel our personal abilities are, or how others might rate or categorize us; each of us, from least to greatest has within them the ability to create wonder, to step beyond ourselves, into that place where secrets lie hidden, where legends sleep, and myths walk along roads long forgotten.

No matter what life throws in our path, we as people have the ability, inside of each of us, to step beyond what is, to look at what might be. This then is our greatest strength, and greatest failing. It can betray us into needless griefs, and damn us into false beliefs. It is also the secret hiding place of that elusive ghost of us all. Hope. Here is where the golden dreams of our childhood wait, resting until our minds stretch just enough to find the way to bring them forth.

We cannot live here, in this golden, secret place, for it is to bright for this world, and those who choose to live there, burn up, and pass form us, unable to remain among we who's eyes are closed, But we need not live in the box of golden to draw upon its power. No, we must simply look inside ourselves, to see the endless dreams of which all men are capable of, the golden hops and silver plans we lay aside in our hearts, believing they are possible, but never daring to hope to achieve them. It is there, in this place, that we cannot live in, that we can look for the secret of breath, the secret of life for our dreams, and the renewal of our hopes. Here, in this human heart, this human imagination, this endless depth of possibilities that all the secret answers we seek may be found.

You just have to look for them, to hunt them, track them , draw them out and once found, to belive in yourself, to never doubt, never fear, never hold back, never stop doing. Your dreams are there, our dreasm are there, wating for us, bigger and bolder, larger than we ever imaigned, more than we hoped. Waiting for us to give them life. Waiting for us to look inside and find the way.

The way home, the way through , the way to where we want to be, the way to tomorrow, the way to joy, the way to laugh, the way to cry, the way to let go, the way to remember, the way to forget, the way to change who we are, the way to fight on, the way to rest, the way to dance like no one is watching, the way to change who we will be, the way to help others around us, the way to change the world, the way to save the day, the way to live.

I believe in you, Whoever you are. Don't give up, not yet. There is hope. Let me show you the way.
~the Wanderer~
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Re: Getting Back in the Habit (comments welcome)

Postby nimbus » Mon Jun 08, 2009 1:39 am

I guess I come back because it makes me smile, like few things do.

It was a day, and night, almost a year ago. The time and place is now, though, and here.
I was the curly haired golden boy, unless I wasn't. The end came first, and went back, then came the strange beginning.

There is a golden castle, a great machine, one would think it should be a Golden Castle, but there is no need, for emphasis, because it is the only one ever made, although it was never made, they just found it. Sleeping beneath the sea, with only the dead to keep it company. When they found it, the gray men, they made a pact with the dead, to use it, to slay men. The dead don't feel pain, and pain was all the castle could remember, the only language it had left. The castle was old, old and gold, and it was made of metal, and fire and thoughts and loneliness. There was none alive except the dead who remembered the castle when it was, and where it was, and why it was lonely. The gray men learned its secrets, learned its ways, and used it there, under the sea. Used it to slay and make and change and break until the world was theirs. But they forgot their bargain with the dead, and went out into this world they had made, to take it and break it and make it anew.

But the dead knew. The castle knew only death, and killing, and loneliness, so tired of the killing and the the gray gray world it had made for gray men with no souls. But the dead knew. They waited in the pool room, there underneath the sea. The cool-cold room with the purple cage and the sleeping man. The man had come there looking for someone, someone to find and kill. So the gray men had used him, lied to him, told him they would find this one and kill him for him, if only he would enter the cage. But long ago they left, and he left, the cage that purple cage of pain, and slept in secret parts of the castle, away form the dead.

The castle waited, tired of killing, dead and lonely, until the curly haired golden boy found the castle, and loved it. And the castle was amazed, and it opened its doors to him, and let him in, led him in to the dead, to the pool room. The curly haired golden boy went into the cage, with its spikes and chains, went in to speak to the castle, and the castle took him under the waters of the pool to sleep, where there was no pain. And the castle loved the boy, and made itself a boy, a golden machine boy, while the true curly haired golden boy slept, in pain where there was no pain.

But the man awoke in the castle, and knew the one he sought was come, and was in the pool. So he sent for the gray men, the slay men, to take back their castle, and keep thier word. Then the gray men fought and came into the castle, and the golden machine boy was destroyed and became part of the castle. Then the castle was sad, and angry, and spoke to the curly haired golden boy, and gave him itself, wresting away all the powers of the gray men. And they assembled in the pool room to fight the boy, and the dead waited at the edge of the pool to see the blood form the boys pain, but there was none for the boy had spoken to the castle in another tongue, another language than pain, and it loved him, and gave him all its power.

When the cage came up the dead knew, and laughed to see the boy unhurt. Then the gray men, saw him, and knew that they had lost their power, and where afraid, except one, who was drunk, and fled into the castle, attempting to escape. So the curly haired golden boy caused the Gray men to kill themselves, in the ways they had killed in the world they had made, except one, who was innocent, who he sent away. The drunk man unable to escape returned, cursing and raging at the boy but he could not harm him, and so to died.

There in the golden castle it waited, it had seen the boys mercy, and his justice, and it waited for the one it loved to use it as none had before, as it was made for. Not to slay, or break or rend or take, but to create a shining new future for the world that the gray men in thier last moments of power had destroyed. Because that was what the castle did, it created everything, it was everything. So the boy went back into the cage, and slept, and when the cage was down into the pool where there was no pain, he dreamed of his shining future, and the castle built it for him. But the dead knew. Waiting by the pool, reading their old books and drinking the blood from the pool. The man had escaped form the gray men, from their doom, and the doom of the old old world, and now he waited, sleeping in the deep places of the castle, for the curly haired golden boy to awaken from his dream.

The boy was wild, bloodied and bruised by his nemesis, beat down and fleeing. Through thunder and rain, thick lashing drops he ran, exhausted untill he collapes on the edge of the doors. At a college they take him in, the ragtag boy with the wet hair straggling down, and the gleaming sword in his hand. They led him to a bed and put him to sleep, his hand still grasping his sword. The dead woke him, the laughing girls who were dead, took him by the hand and lead him to the golden castle beneath the sea.

And I dreaming, awakened.
8/20/08
~the Wanderer~
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Re: Getting Back in the Habit (comments welcome)

Postby nimbus » Mon Jun 08, 2009 2:00 am

a piece of paper
picked up in the morning or was it the evening, I cant remember.
It doesn't matter. I wrote on it things I couldn't remember, about things that I hadn't dreamed of, merely seen in my dreams.

This will be an ongoing post, edited as i can remember it. It will not end this thread.

I Have seen much In my dreams, but I have only dreamed one thing. Only been one thing, only acted as one person of my own will. Three times now, in thirty years. Now I will begin the telling of it, though I have no name for it, or place that it might call its own, save that gray land where dreams sleep.

And I being a youth asleep, dreamed.

I was the hunter. Deep space was my quarries ally, and planets and asteroid belts our stalking-horses and hidey holes. I cannot remember my ship, other than its silver white and flashing lights. I was the one who chased, chased the ship, the white ship that she was on. Near a planet, I found it, In an asteroid belt It foundered. I cannot remember more.

And I being a young man asleep, dreamed.
I was the hunter. In Lincoln green and darkened leather, with bow and arrow-less quiver. Weapons in plenty had I, but it seemed they had never been drawn. In the inn, the talking room, with the great fireplace I spoke of her with many, the woman in white. Legend and story passed form hand to hand, and I grew weary, and rested at the fire as mist stole across the land. Dark waters, and shaded forests of great trees who's tops were hidden among the fog, and who's branches cast strange patterns on the ground. Mist drifted form the lake, the dark lake, mirror-shining in the fog.
There on the shores of the lake I found her, I could see her face, but It would not sit still in my dreaming mind, but fled away again with the mists she walked in. I sped toward her like an arrow new-launched, but as swift I went, so she the swifter. A day and night pursuit, but the fog made all white and gray until she slipped unseen and I, pursuing on,
Awoke. This I remember.

And I being a man asleep, dreamed.
Of a great mall, a great bazaar of people and noise, cars and light, and balloons and sounds and rides to fantastic to stick in the mind. There I was not the hunter, but I knew the prey was close, Knew that a moment of destiny was upon me. In that moment I remembered the dreams of before, and became the hunter,and the space man, all as one. I felt her passage through the crowding people as the mist of old, and asteroid belts of before, but I resolved to pursue. Crowds and faces, the multitude of the wold passed me by, a million unremarked, unremembered faces, until i had forgotten hers, and stood awaiting Awakening.

Three times in thirty years. I will capture this dream when it comes again. We shall see where and when.
~the Wanderer~
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