We talk to each other
turning on and off
feeling control
power
but does it ever end
do we ever turn the other on
is there any power
or are the switches there just
to keep the illusion
of a feeling
of control
alive
We all have to come together, they say sometimes.
To stand up against forces going backward or forward too fast or that go nowhere.
But when are there too many together, holding hands, intertwining into a fence?
Do we want to become a fence that, at time, someone else has to cut?
Can you stop when time is unavoidably against you?
Or is there no time in politics?
I see an empty space
it feels empty because something is missing
but not because there was never something
and what I wonder fits
We all walk in mist
into the mist
used to the closeness
of what we step on
the outlines
of where we think
we are going
Some levers you just want to use
to see the effect
even if you know it
That what brings you around
can also protect you from impacts
Is it the color
is it the crooked
is it the number
is it decay
did you choose
or did the choice choose you
The handle only turns itself loose
while the waters drain my empty inside
I keep turning with hope
but should let go
get a grip
on what is loose
You don’t drown in the darkness of shallow waters.
And while you have not let yourself to be filled in a long time.
You can see all around where your waters were once.
Just enjoy the moving reflection on your darkness whenever the light rises and sets again.
When you look down at the reflection of the sky in barely frozen water.
I will stay a little longer, till it moves — me.
It’s strange that the clock around the dark corner ticks slower, or are your hands tied?
It is often clear to see that the whole is now in parts.
Too much pressure or a sudden shock is often the reason, and while some of the broken parts move on with some functions intact, others seem to lose their purpose.
These parts will only find purpose in someone else's reinventing hands or might fill a hole in whoever needs direction.
Abandoned factories are often more interesting than the ones still in use.
For me, it is the activity, the moving parts, and the workers doing their work in silence that I see projected on what is now, old.
I imagine, and what I imagine is often a more refined version of reality, with harmony as its guide.
Reality necessarily rubs against ideality.
I built it all by myself, satisfied. It was finished, but I didn’t realize I wasn’t.
Time passes by; time is nothing when we are not around, but in silence, it stops where you are, and without effort, it will reverse where you ended, where you were satisfied.
Why do we fight time? Is it because we have none?
I walked a road tomorrow, and there was no one.
But it was an emptiness, the kind that hides a void where someone belongs.
Something should be there waiting for me, on the side of that road
Even if it is just a wish, I will wait tomorrow.
I remember that high lookout from where I had an overview of the room that was my life.
Heavy freight I lifted and moved over obstacles from up there.
I sometimes look back at that memory and see the old stairs going up, remembering all those times when I was looking down and to the other side of the hall where my future slowly grew.
I wish it were safe to go up there now, all these years later, and see where my future ended by the time I left that room.
Nochrisis 