Dream in Color

It always amazes me how different the city looks from across the river. The lines shooting into the dusk are straight and even, a testament to geometry and organization. Parallel and even, each of the windows reflecting the setting sun like a tiny orange fire. The skyline looks ablaze with life, a surreal landscape against the purple blankness that blends into the pitch black waters below. The cliffs emerge like giant sentinels across the river, reflecting in their jaggedness the randomness that exists within the city itself, where the lines deteriorate at street level forming a chaotic, gray, swirling mass. This is the loneliest city in the world, New York, with its intimidating, sterile spires that dwarf the people, ants making their way below. Shoulders hunched, faces melting with tiredness, defeat, walking husks that follow the worn routine, dressed in the perennial black of fashion, souls that mourn their destiny. What is the likelihood that you will find the one…that person that speaks to your soul, that makes you shine, that brings out all the beautiful things you carry inside, in that little box, hidden…all the treasures that you wish you could reveal? In this city, where all are lost, how do you find that path that radiates warmth…do you seek the heat within? Do you retreat inwards and guard yourself against the frost emmanating from this place? Some Asian cultures believe that straight lines destroy the spirit and that round surfaces restore it. I think they are right. The city is so incredibly harsh, like the subject of a twisted, black and white nightmare, an Echeresque cornucopia that sucks you in, suffocating your senses. At times the aloofness of it all is comforting…as comforting as feeling isolated in a crowd…a feeling of detachment and apathy that washes through you, like you’re one against the entire human race, a sort of survivalist strength that fills you with pride, because you are surviving. It is no easier to survive here than it is in the jungle, but everybody does it. Sometimes when I close my eyes I dream of this place and the dreams are blank, washed out, lacking life, ennervating. I guess this is lone-liness, this is what it means to be lonely…to walk the streets late at night, to ride the crowded subways, to see the beggar as he extends his hand, coffee cup shaking, “Can you spare some coins today?” Where are our paths leading? What lies ahead? What will summer bring? How do we keep our dreams alive? How do I keep your hand in mine so that we don’t disappear? Tell me how I can fight the erosive effect of time. The night is cold. There will be warmer days. I feel a sense of tension, as if I’m being held precariously close, at the edge of a cliff, and falling may not be bad, giving in may be the best thing I’ve ever done. I can smile, as I fall into the arms of this destiny that calls. I do not know, not sure if I want to know. Control is subjective. This night washes through me like a shadow, quickly slipping as thought threaten to invade each moment and infuse it with anticipation. My thoughts stretch out, beyond this distant city, beyond this region, to magical places, to the door of my ideals, where anything and everything is possible, where the world is perfectly calm and soothing. Why not? Why not reach out and embrace this life…the good and the bad, the bright and the dull, the day and the night…two halves of the whole, ying and yang, the fullness that I seek to experience. Pain is the measurement against which we measure our joys. Without one there is no other. This is our destiny, the dicotomy of being human. I desire, and in my desires I find temperance. It is late and I am not home.

[learn_more caption=”What’s New?”] Today was a wonderful day. I spoke to some friends that I hadn’t spoken to in a while. I’m going to a live action role playing game on Saturday. Go check out the web-site it’s really well done Innocents-Lost. I heard from Robert that Century Productions may have a publisher and I’m very happy about this. We are currently in the de-veloping stage of an online game for the world of Aben as well as working on Century graphic novel illustrations. I have a great feeling about this. The website has not been updated in a while, but Robert has been diligently working on it offline. Century will soon have a new home. Very Exciting! Robert I just want to say that you’ve been doing an incredible job with that site. Robert’s my best friend…Hi Robert! I love you. I think we are going to go some-where.[/learn_more]

[learn_more caption=”Kahlil Gibran: 7 Selves”] In the silent hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whispers: First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I must rebel. Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given me to be this madman’s joyous self. I laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence. Third Self: And what of me, the love- ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the lovesick self who would rebel against this madman. Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but the odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this mad- man. Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to wander with- out rest in search of unknown things and things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel. Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion the days into images and give the formless elements new and eternal forms–it is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman. Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfill. Ah! could I but be like one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, when you are busy recreating life. Is it you or I, neighbours, who should rebel? When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves looked with pity upon him but said nothing more; and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission. But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.[/learn_more]