The Great Revelation

Last night I went on campus. I climbed the emergency ladder from outside the tallest building and cling to the very last antenna from the top of which I wish my mind could let go off this past and I prayed in despair and I cried in vain. Some episodes from random patches of memory need to stay in and haunt your soul until the very last drop of blood pulsing and gushing through your entire body is carried away up to your brain, blown across your dried flesh making your eyes burst into flames -- flames of redemption and forgiveness every single one of us would die for to shed some clear liquid light through eyes so dark contemplating over one's own very existence from outside one's own existence. 

"This is the Great Revelation imploding within each and single one of the electric particles that weave the fabric of a small short breaths of life to dive into life itself to explore its mysteries. Once you get you're about to eventually explode into billions of cocoons and galaxies you wait for them to tear themselves from the inside out to crave for even more expansions. Once one tried the experience, one wants some more."

From the miserable suicidal top of the city, observing how quiet and chill my time at the university was. I closed my eyes and wished for the wind to caress my cheek and push hard into oblivion, into the nothingness of an act so demanded and yet out of control. I said "Let go!" and yelled "Touch the sun and kiss the rain!" I mumbled and smiled at me saying "My eyed open wisdom..."

That night I let go off my fears and uncertainty. I shared my secrets with the universe and made myself a promise. "Time to move on. Take the leap and take your own destiny into your hands. Move on!"

So they say...

Eyes tickling, stuck on the window of the bus, he wondered if someone was thinking of him at the very same time he was fascinated by the falling snow, sublimed under the orange light of lampposts. Then in the streets, too clumsy to contemplate the hidden architectural treasures sitting on rooftops, he'd watch his feet passing one ahead of the other all the way to his place where he'd sit for hours on his sad armchair trying not to think how sad it is to fancy intentions on people's many faces. He'd go blind in the dark, realizing the sun was already down and brightened up the room for a second when he lit his cigarette. This day was nothing but a whirling chain of cryptic sensations he could not attribute words to. One more day of nothing in his life of nothingness... "How nothing!" he says to him. "Now let's try get some shit done and read his journals... she might have an idea of how this day should end for the many characters he invented..." ; although he was not sure how to put words he read and words of imagination altogether ; maybe there is no way to write anything based on facts... on history... what if He was right ? His right hand would be tempted to say that eternity and frozen time is bullshit while his left hand argued with it and claimed to remain silent and focus on his reading... "The problem is there's no such thing as reading without associating yourself with them characters and them stories and..."