Mixed. Mixed white wine with red rose tea. Now alcohol swirls in my head. Swirls around, intoxicating me, the colour of purple, of royalty, of seduction, of intoxication.
  My mind is enchanted.
  When I close my eyes I feel myself surrounded with dreams.
  Life is like typing. There's a certain particular sequence. Sometimes you can just go on and on like this without any break in between and you feel breathless but somehow it's always the way it's meant to be because it's the only way to go.
  BREATHE.
  Breathe.
  I want to be alive.
  Feel the swirls of scent of the wine merged with the tea.
  Breathe, and be alive.
  Close your eyes and feel your soul BREATHE.
  All you need to forget all the world's material gains. The pain. The essential sorrow.

  Help. It's a cry for help. I hear it everywhere when I wander through the streets. Punks calling out for help in their streetwise clothes. They're trying to scream it in their cheerful carefree demeanour. Help.
 It's their cry for help.
  Identity. That's my cry for help.
  National identity. That's the nation's cry for help.
  Help us in how to learn to exist. To live.
  To live in this world that's probably not meant for me. For us.
  Where everyone's lost. Where do we go from here? When the roads diverge, where do we walk towards?

  Apple. Fresh of spring. Its sweet, crisp taste. Is this alive?
  Is it the thought of nature? Or the nostalgia for it? Is it what keeps us going?
  Apple was supposed to the fruit of sin, was it not? Or am I mistaken in my head? Has the city eaten away my brains?
  The smell of alcohol died. The apple's taste lingers. The taste of nostalgia for nature's breaths, her caresses. Her careful way of grooming and tending for all us of beings.
  No high-flown and gone means of self-expression. As it was, plain, sweet and crisp. Rejunvenation.
  That was what it's meant to be.
 

  Breathe. The search for me.
  My own identity, my own cry for help.
  I pray for the city, my own country. It's crying out for help, too. I hear it. Can you hear it? Are you all deaf? Or is it only the cry that all old souls upon meditation hear?
  Or is it the cry that all sages cannot ignore?
  I pray for the city. The country. Its people. Its citizens. They no longer breathe. They're suffocating. They writhe like worms in this little worm-can and await their fate to be taken away by death before they learn how to BREATHE. Writhe and writhe and writhe. In search for something to alleviate the pain, for the sense of certainty that they will need to cling onto when they feel the ultimate death creeping upon them by their bedsides, when their machinery's all worn out, when their iron lungs' all rusted because they don't know how to breathe.
  When one breath takes away all uncertainty and brings acceptance.
  They deny this breath from themselves.
  Because they don't know how to breathe.
  And I'm still struggling. To breathe. To find me.

  The resounding cries for help in the diseased worms crawling in the bowels of the night. Breathe, feel the night air, forget the cries.
  Help me.
  17 years of life. 17 years of life.
  Why am I the only one who's realised the importance of breathing? The rejuvenation of one crisp sweet breath of air?
  Crawl. Crawl like all of them. Writhe. Writhe like they all do.
  How do I live, when they're all around me?
  Those worms in a wormcan. Diseased worms in the bowels of night.
  Help me. Set me free. These 17 years of life… Let it end. Will I be free then?
 

  Help them. Set them free. All of them, blind.
  Pitiful. They are all pitiful. They don't know it they crawl and writhe and writhe and still they can't hear their own bodies' cries.
  These 17 years of life doesn't matter, when they've lived on for thousands of years, fighting each other, using an atom as a power tool, scaring each other. So much tension in the world. And they still can't hear their own cries for help.
  Help them. Set them free.
  Worms in a wormcan. That's our national identity.

"17seconds of compassion
17 seconds of peace
17 seconds to remember love is the energy
     behind which all is created
17 seconds to remember all that is good
17 seconds to forget all your hurt and pain
17 seconds of faith
17 seconds to trust you again
17 seconds of radiance
17 seconds to send a prayer up
17 seconds is all you really need"
--"Adore" booklet, Smashing Pumpkins

-end-

Thursday, June 20, 2002 3:50:41 PM
voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk
http://xz0ne.cjb.net