My hand on the door feels closed
while I stared trough this little window
at little mountains and blue skies
it's like the dream I wanted again
Day 2873, wanted.
Daily picture, PoetryPoetry
Day 2872, looks on.
Daily picture, Poetry
The wind blows the soft snow
in sharp lines
as if nowhere to go
and the dry winter cold
looks on
Day 2871, forty.
Daily picture, Poetry
Today the snow fell
one by one on top of each other
line by line next to each other
forty centimeters tall at the end
so beautiful stacked on top of my car
when I looked at it
with a shovel in hand
Day 2870, stream.
Daily picture, Poetry
My loud colors are hidden in the woods
where the cold will keep you away
but I don’t mind you all
it’s just me I want to lose
to follow the sound of the spring in the stream
and find myself
anew
Day 2868, because.
Daily picture, Poetry
Blown snow stuck against the door's window
I opened it to feel
but decided
to stay in
because I can
Day 2867, old poem.
Daily picture, Poetry
Through the snow I continue where the path ends
the path that took me to that which is unexpected
thinking we know where we are going understand
what am I doing here what am I doing in the snow
I can give you reason or two maybe three or more
so what is true of all of this or what will value have
the cold snow on the ground I fall into is full of this
unthinkable thoughts a never-conceivable realities
without reason it wants to give anything the truth
It happens spontaneously in passing just like that
don't think too much think like a child every day
without a past dare to fall into the cold snow
do not be afraid of the wet or the blame
wet cloth can dry the days disappear
disappearing into the horizons
the one that is behind you
full of old imaginations
heavy as a burden
denied bitterness
you will forget
what it was
as a child
to be to
fall in
snow
Wet
am
I
that
is like
to become
a child
play
Day 2866, what I see.
Daily picture, Poetry
The weather has taken time
that was left for this old house
I know the windows no longer open
bearing the weight of it’s support
but the trees surrounding
no longer stand
in the way
when this last storm decided
in favor of me
and what I see
Day 2865, teapot.
Daily picture, Poetry
Day 2864, parked.
Daily picture, Poetry
Even though I was parked here
in this lot
I stil enjoyed the structure
and slow chaos
Day 2863, still.
Daily picture, Poetry
I still like
what got planted
in front of my youth
the painting of it
is still hanging here
Day 2861, free?
Daily picture, Poetry
Free will
like a metronome it gives rithm
a hold on
in a deaf world
Day 2860, different.
Daily picture, Poetry
You held me in the past
with different lenghts
and sometimes times
Day 2859, imposible.
Daily picture, Poetry
The world is beautiful, even where life seems to be impossible.
Sitting down here in the snow
reading no news that is old
what we all do to each other
in the name of your truth
just not real here for me
in this seemingly
impossible
what the world is for me
Day 2858, still there
Daily picture, Poetry
I remember where I lived
slept all those nights
the outside
the cold wind
a slight sun
the darkness behind the clouds
the steps in the snow
and grass
in the summer
I not only remember
I am somehow
still there
Day 2857, no reflection.
Daily picture, Poetry
I stare out my window
there is no reflection
only outside
Day 2856, cannot.
Daily picture, Quotes
Friedrich Nietzsche
The Will to Power
Book III: Principle of a New Determination of Values/Part 1. The Will to Power as Knowledge
473 The intellect cannot criticize itself, precisely because it cannot be compared with different kinds of intellects, and because its ability to acquire knowledge would be manifested only in the face of ‘true reality’; i.e. in order to criticize the intellect, we should have to be superior beings who possessed ‘absolute knowledge’. This already presupposes that, apart from all perspectival kinds of observation and sensory and intellectual appropriation, there is something, an ‘in-itself’ – but the psychological derivation of the belief in things forbids our speaking of ‘things in themselves’.
Nochrisis 