Sunday, August 24, 2008
I learned of a phase in my madness
a silent serenity lies on the sea
the core of affection projects life.
An acoustic song of cicadas, the boat awaits
for a lost cause called as the self
lingering, flattering to the serenity
the light of the sunset beams ahead.
Rowing, the pensive leaking of the wood
reaching the center of the blatant balance
where time stops, living lone, fishing
the inner loggia of art conceives breath.
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The portrayal of Innisfree is the inner peace of a being in search of simple purity and rest. The peace of what the mind wants is blatantly far from the world too connected to reality, where forces of effect from the surroundings of a standardized contemporary setting submits fragmented supposition to the self. The peace of what the mind wants is aimed to disconnect from contingency, where peace is expressed both in a profound existence and in an air of a leveled phenomenon.
The peace of disconnection will never be far as long as the mind is in control of the consciousness and only literal interpretation and aim will grant difficulty. On a boat in the middle of the sea, where time stops as the sunset performs, profound simplicity offers sleep.
Labels: The Self to the Art
Erika Ruiz
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Overwhelmed the sight of fierce
Vivid projection of nightminds
Illuminates amazing grace.
Opening, the door follows
The overman plays the oracle
The loggia preaches nil
Compels the overbearing absurdity.
Fistful of steel, construction lost
Dread overcomes the sleep
Back to the air of frightful serene
Silence, the last dulcet rigor destroyed.
Surface sinks, merges the lam
Evolution forces consciousness
The corvette, dementia remembers
Madness meets freedom.
Stop, everything profound.
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A time for everything protects sanity, deconstruction of the evolution creates, stops time opening the consciousness to the unbearable absurdity of the wideness of the darkness. The time remains, the everything changes. The beauty starts to be seen differently, apathy and empathy amalgamate to the enlightenment of confusion. In simplicity, everything is connected, all in extremity and disconnection, indifference, similarity, and expression. All are balanced in the duration of setting, all are in the existence of the duration of setting, all are in the existence of the occurence of a phenomenon contingent to the being. All have been endured, to be sensed and are felt; ventured in the same throwness, different projection.
Labels: The Self to the Art
Erika Ruiz
Sunday, August 03, 2008
There were perfectly circular splodges of blood on the floor, unrecognized and existing as it is to exist. Nothing left to subtract, nothing ever happened; the ritual goes on in an unclear absurdity. There will be blood in the opening eyes in the day of actuality.
Labels: The Self to the Art
Erika Ruiz
