And I go back to the quest of answers, as a narcotic, daredevil, or junky who loves to pick petals from the melancholic garden of sunflowers.
And as a confused lover, adventurer, and seasonal writer, all words which spell from my hand aren’t suppose to make sense.
How could I write feelings as one would write numbers? Just by seeing a painting could you embody the thousand stitches that were ripping apart the heart of the alive extension of that inanimate paintbrush?
And nothing makes sense. Yet this makes everything so real. Love doesn’t make sense. Feelings have no patterns. Nature blossoms and dies freely as birds and accordingly to the impermanent wind. Inspiration is nonsense, for I can go to the same old songs and find inspiration and nostalgia as if I were a machine. Yet I am no machine, and being able to trick myself makes me nauseous.
And all words are blasphemy towards the tremors that her voice produces in me. And it is stupid to say, that only her voice gives me these tremors. Also not hearing her voice, also the birds during dusk, and the daily laughter that shades any pain and sadness. See, senseless. Yet these tremors give me true impulse knowing that I am not consciously tricking my heart.
And this makes living the only thing that could make sense for it seems that it is the only irremediable thing. Yet life is anything that does an effort to prevent death from introducing itself. So it is senseless to live if we only live to not die. But doing what I love. What you love. Whatever you feel entranced, enchanted, intoxicated, and addicted to. Does this make sense? But if what I love is you? Then what is the meaning of going back to that bittersweet field of passionate sunflowers? What is the purpose of plucking petals and letting time run over me if I can’t have you.
So are words actually the only inaccurate things that make sense. Is singing included here? Is body language, kissing, dancing and midnight sex also included in with words? Because even though I can’t feel the stitches from the artist that painted that art piece, I know that he was aching. So it makes sense. For I know that if you yield me a kiss it means that once aging old times can momentarily be relived. For I know that all I cannot say clearly, directly or understandably can be build upon words that make some sense with time. Yet some words don’t make sense for sure, maybe not to your ears, eyes and feelings. Maybe not to her eyes. But they will always make sense to me. Stitches cycle between paper, pen and my body back into paper, and going back to old words reanimate the one thousand and one dreams I could have in one day. They make so much sense.
Yet one thing I forget, senseless things are real and words are so surreal. Not unreal, but surely not as powerful as silence during an eye stare. Not as real as a blossoming flower or a waving ocean. Maybe words can make sense in a senseless world, but they cannot laugh or cry as the one who will always write them down.
Jose Andres Arvide