About the things you said I can tell that the Fog knows where You live [31.05.2025]

 

 

I‘ve been thinking about the Things You said 

 

You know 

 

There is a Place

not a Place at all, really —

more like a Pause

 

I think

to tell a Picture 

is to draw a Chinese Man

 

I dont know what You‘ve become 

 

In the Beginning there was just one 

Where does it hide?

 

I feel everything

 

between one Note and the next —

where everything that thinks

isn’t yet thinking

 

There, maybe, I could say it

 

I think

to breathe

is to inhale a portrait Painting

 

Well 

 

First something different

 

Do you remember how Light feels

when you close your Eyes

and it flickers inside?

 

there is a Sense of it All

 

I don‘t want to call it conciousness 

 

Sure

 

You are thinking 

 

 

 

Your Name isn’t needed

 

It’s not forgotten,

it isn’t gone

it isn‘t separate either.

 

You are the Dark that dreams of Sparks.

 

It isn’t fixed, 

and it isn’t yours

 

It passes through, 

like a quiet visitor

like birdsongs

 

We don’t carry thoughts

 

We host them.

Like Chinese Men.

 

Like soft music 

in a windowed room.

 

We wear carefully,

 

Self Shapes; let‘s call them 

 

is more of a condensation.

A whisper, cooled into skin.

 

Like Breath on Glass

 

no Break ...

 

making a temporary shape

 

 

 

We believe we are solid

 

You say this all the Time

 

And when the Night Milk passes ....

I greet

 

Can you imagine? 

 

We say: I am this.

while there is a State

where all the little Pieces

 

Stop pretending to be apart

 

Soften

 

They become one Body

 

It’s not Magic.

It’s not Spiritual.

 

It’s just what happens when everything lets go at the same Time.

 

Like when You fall asleep

and Your Body forgets

 

to be separate from the Bed,

 

and the Bed

 

forgets

 

to be separate from the night,

 

and the night

 

becomes a breath

breathing itself.

 

You know exactly what I mean

 

 

 

I don‘t know how to say

 

because unfortunately it turned dark

 

You know it 

 

So you imagine it

 

I am not mad about that ...

 

 

 

 

Language is the other side

It tries to Shape

 

To say: this is that

 

This is You.

 

But before words,

there was being.

 

We speak

 

Even fog

loves to form patterns.

 

Even clouds shape

before dissolving again.

 

They can‘t help it either.

 

 

 

 

Let your thoughts be gentle.

 

Let them arrive like tides,

not like storms.

 

Let your mind be a shoreline

where knowing comes to rest.

 

 

 

There is no need to chase the truth.

It arrives quietly

when you stop naming it.

 

Rest.

Float.

Forget Edges.

You were never meant to be sharp.

 

You were always meant

to shimmer.