Resonanssi.

THE RESONANCE

Nämä kaikki on omistettu äänelle, Resonanssille, mille lie. Sille helvetilliselle pörinälle ja surinalle, joka palauttaa meidän olemassaolomme joskus elämän päätyttyä takaisin siihen yhteen suureen ääneen, joka on olemassaolon lakkaaminen. Minulla ei koskaan tule olemaan kokemusta kuolleena olemisesta, mutta minulla tulee aina olemaan kokemus kuolemisesta. Siitä hitaasta elämästä joka kulkee lävitseni koko ajan, kuljettaa minua varmasti kohti sitä, mikä joskus tulee olemaan minun ja kaiken muunkin olevan lopullinen tila: olemattomuus. Sitä odottaessani näen paljon asioita, se tuo eteeni ja ennen kaikkea mieleeni näkyjä ja visioita, jotka ovat kaikki yhdentekeviä, ja siksi niin kauniita. Koska kaikki nämä näyt tulevat kuolemaan minun kanssani, enkä koskaan tule saamaan niitä ulos itsestäni.

Nämä kuvat muodostavat selkeän tarinan ja kokonaisuuden, joka alkaa alhaalta, uhrauksesta, siitä olemisen pohjasta, jolla on tarve symbolisille tasoille ja merkityksille, siitä olennosta jonka päässä kuvilla ja kielellä on kiistämätön yhteys ja jolle vapautuminen tarkoittaa jonkinlaista oppimisen tietä. Ihminen, joka on vielä kiinni omassa itsessään ja omassa olemassaolossaan, ja kuvittelee tekevänsä suuriakin uhrauksia antaessaan omaansa pois. Mutta se ei vielä ole todellinen uhri, koska ihmisellä on olemassa jokin minä, joka näitä uhrauksia tekee. Pohjalla ja rikottuna ihminen myy vaikka sielunsa saatanalle päästäkseen takaisin yhteiskuntaan kiinni, tai sitten hän hylkää sen ja kääntyy sisäänpäin. Sisäänpäin kääntymistä on kahdenlaista: tiedostavaa ja itsetuhoista. Suurin osa kaikista sisäänpäin kääntyneistä on itsetuhoisia. He eivät voi päästä irti itsestään, koska he kokevat itsensä loukatuksi, kun heitä ei huolittu mukaan siihen leikkiin, mihin kaikki muut pääsivät.

Tiedostavat sisäänpäin kääntyneet taas pyrkivät tavoittelemaan sitä jotain suurta valaistumista, joka tulee aina olemaan ulottumattomissa, mikäli he eivät opi lopettamaan etsimistä. He ovat tietoisia itsestään, ja yrittävät kovasti päästä siitä eroon, tästä on esimerkiksi koko Sartren Inho tehty, ihmisestä joka koittaa päästää irti itsestään, lakata pitämästä itseään kiinni siinä todellisuudessa, jossa hän istuu puiston penkillä. Silti, koska hän yrittää niin kovasti, hän päätyy tekemään enemmän, kuin alunperinkään teki.

Seuraavalla tasolla tapahtuu itsestä irtautuminen, ymmärrys siitä miten kaikki on lopultakin yhtä, koska kuolemassa mitään siitä ei ole enää olemassa. Se on kaikki hetkellistä harhaa, jota pällistellään sen aikaa, kun saadaan itse olla olemassa, ymmärtämättä että on aivan sama, onko se kaikki olemassa, koska se lakkaa kuitenkin. Se on "valaistuminen", ymmärrys rajallisuudesta ja sen rajattomuudesta.

Tämä kuljettaa eteenpäin, kielen värähtelynä, säikeiden värähtelynä, kaiken resonanssina. Kaikki on lopultakin vain yhtä laulua, ei välttämättä munkkien kurkkulaulua ja hyminää, vaan päättymätöntä huminaa, kosmista ääntä joka kuljettaa meistä jokaisen lopulta hitaasti osaksi itseään, me olemme pieniä epäpuhtauksia siiinä suuressa äänessä, joka hajottaa jokaisen tajunnan joskus osaksi itseään. Sen äänen sisällä ihmiskunta on säveltänyt oman pienen välisoittonsa, johon tiede, taide, uskonnot ja kaikki ihmisen kulttuuri kuuluu. Se tekee elämästä niin helvetin hienoa, koska se on meidän itse maalaamamme kuva, pieni pala kuolematonta ja tuhoutumatonta keskellä katoavaa maailmaa. Mitään, minkä me olemme tehneet, ei voi tehdä tekemättömäksi enää koskaan. Hyvässä ja pahassa.

The Will To Exist

These eyes that burn these visions to my soul
Keep engraving golden letters in the piece of coal
Like a needle piercing through the layers of skin
Until there is nothing left but space
Between every molecule of me
Between every atom
Between every particle
The empty space that we call soul
The essence of me, that tireless need
The will that burns behind these eyes
That keep burning these golden letters
Into this empty space between my particles.
That is truly to exist!
In such many levels simultaneously
And still be uncertain
Whether you exist or not.

Purpose

Basking in the sepian light of November Sun
The ruins of man's infrastructure long gone
Once needed, now abandoned when done
Seemingly forgotten, while being all but.
Nature nurtures the brick walls
Caresses them with roots and sprouts.
Growing out of the wall
Life out of stone.
Breathing new life
Into what men left behind to die
Perseverance pays itself back.
Patience is a virtue we don't have time for
And that is why nature will once nurture
Our bones too.
And when all my thoughts bleed out
When my skin takes the palest of hues
When all life deserts me
I am happy to know
That finally I serve some purpose

Warning to the Nation

Consider this as a warning to the nation.
People lacking consideration
Can never build houses of windchimes and butterflies.
Their houses are white,
Their houses are houses of pain
And in their own name they committ crimes
Against their fellowmen,
Abuse their rights,
Feed them lies,
Use their time to feed more lies.
Their vision is the one you see
Their vision is the one you swallow
Their vision is the one you'll choke
It's easy not to care.
Approval always is.
It takes a man to fight until the most bitter of all ends.
And the end is bitter, for every winner, for every loser alike.

Stones

I stand still and breathe the cold air
Winter creeps into my lungs
The cold I tried to keep out for so long
I always knew it will once return
My path is illuminated
By thousand glowing candles
They enlighten names in the stones
Only few seem familiar
The ones closest to my path
The names I can still recall
All is covered by golden cloth
All is good as long as I am here
As long as I can still remember
As many stones as possible
Light drowns in the twilight of dawn
Sun will reclaim his throne
It redeems every light
It returns every life
Right where they are supposed to be
Back to sweet, familiar oblivion.

Exit Life

Maybe she'll get hit by a car.
Maybe she'll be driving a car,
and she'll hit me 80 mph,
and she'll kiss the windscreen goodbye
as she passes me by,
as she leaves this wretched world behind,
as she flies sixty yards across the sky,
hits a pine, snaps her spine,
shuts down her conscious mind,
terrified, as anyone who's about to die
to let go, rather than to paralyze
to know, to decide
to exit life.

Like Music

As the music started, everyone stopped doing whatever it was they were doing, as if enchanted by the violent, but at the same time miraculously delicate notes the piano sang under his command. No one noticed him coming, but to be honest it was rather dark in this pub. Most of the light bulbs had gone out a while ago, but the pubkeeper was not too keen on facultyworks, which added it's own character to this particular pub. Floorboards creaked, faucets kept running and there was a probable mould damage in progress.

But now the place was lit by thundering music, the air was thick with tension and pure electricity. Customer's hair could have as well jumped and tried to reach the roof, they felt constant shivers going down their spine with almost every new note.

And the man playing the music? He was a suit-full of devil and blues poured into a form of a man, he was like river, scary, terrifying force of nature. His fingers kept hitting the notes out of the worn out machinery of the instrument. He made it sing songs of mortality and dying, of longing and joy, of love and trust. His foot kept the rhythm going even when he played the most silent and almost non-existent notes.

People could do nothing but sit there, staring at the back of his brown coat. The beers went warm, meals went cold, bees could have built hives and have colonies in those open mouths that were pointed towards this man, who played for good twenty minutes without a pause. Then, after the last note was followed by silence that seemed to go on forever, he slowly turned around, accompanied only by the slightly reluctant creak from his bench.

No one said a word, but now they could all see the player himself. He was an older black man, probably in his late sixties or early seventies, his short beard had gone gray long ago. He had long, bony fingers and the widest of all smiles. His smile would have looked warm and embracing, if there wasn't something in his eyes. His eyes made that smile look cunning and somewhat malicious, those eyes made all the people in the pub feel uneasy.

The man rose from his bench with one sudden, slender and light move, walked up to the counter, turned to the bartender and ordered a beer with a deep, resonating voice. It took the tender a whil to realize this weird man was talking to him, and when he did, he coughed to clear his throat. "Sure, sure.. It's on the house.." He muttered to his beard. "Well ain't that something!" The stranger replied loudly, with a slightly higher tone than before. "You walk into a small shithole of a bar like this, ruin everyone's evening and get a free drink for it!" His honesty about his own position made the bartender feel himself even more uneasy. "it's been our common habbit, and all that......" he continued muttering, keeping his eyes on the counter instead of those dreadfully burning eyes. Man grinned and clapped his hands, took his pint and walked slowly to one of the dark cornertables.

People started to recover from this strange and unexpected incident, and began to drink and talk as if the spell would have been broken. Something had changed though. Everyone was on their feet, cautious like a fox that's being hunted. Some would give the odd player suspicious but hidden looks, and when recalling that night afterwards, all these people would sweat they saw his eyes glowing in the dark corner.

Eventually everything was as it used to be, people forgot all about the shadow in the corner, and although he had no intention to leave, and he knew what impression he had left to their minds, people tried to reject that uncomfortable feeling in the back of their heads, the lump in their throats. And death looked at all he had created, and he saw that it was all good.