ST89 ... 'Is there anyone there'
'Is there anyone listening', ...on this trail of unknowing.
'Is there anyone there' he asked, from the darkness dangling in the air towards the back of the bus. The trip through the mountains was surreal. He saw a rainbow glistening across a mountain side. The moon, silvery coloured light in the middle of the night. He was a young man, on a road across the country, across the lands, across the territory in a rare mind, his rambling ways, his youthful restless body. He was just a kid in the mid sixties looking for ‘anything’ along the road.
 He asked again, 'Is there anyone listening, any entity in these clouds, any being in this space that knows what's goin on, what it's all about'? He got answers but they all seemed somehow a part of another side of himself, another dimension waiting in the shadows for a fool like him, like me. Who am i trying to kid. I am the writer, the subject, the fool and the kid.
I'm old now but still walking with that young and restless heart. I have no answers, i have less questions. I am often satisfied knowing nothing. There is nothing to know. I live on the edge, in the middle, on the surface of the deep. I am of the original love left from the silence. I have friends of high sustenance and low regards for nonsense, hiding amongst their shadows. I am a man of the future entertaining a past, beyond the chains of time, beyond the complications of synchronicities and the false shelters of solitude.
I walk down streets of glamour, alleyways of tortured souls, across highways of magnificent minds, magical terrains melting of beauty amidst manufactured sentimental love. I walk thru the tangled web of thought, cautiously.
On the way towards the end i see the mist surrounding you, you and your weak dreams, your crippled love and your broken faith crawling across the frontiers of salvation. I feel your finger nails against the glass. The sky is opening with sounds of angels whispering words of hope with insights of truck loads of half dazed hypnotized warriors beating their cracked drums for the fulfillment of an archaic prophets dream, longing for your touch.
I left the party, the race, the news, the neighbourhoods of knowing for the forest, into the deep dark, the earth of the mother, of life, the slippery mystery, the bent light of being… unnoticed.
I moved to some out of the way seaside village where fishermen and whales still talk in riddle and people care about nothing but nothing about nothing much. I am there, living quietly with the ghosts of man across terrains of timeless tests searching for a mind to play, play the game of this and that, up and down, in and out, right and wrong, the game of consciousness being. I am here, in the middle, beside the heat of precepts and the cold space of eternity, watching with no one, nothing but these infinite forms evolving before me, this awareness of knowing moving in and out of existence like a mirage, i sit, i walk, i am of nothing, empty, swift air blowing thru feathers of time along the road of unknowing.
Lessons for ‘the unknowing’ ….throwing light into the dark fire, becoming a trickster, walking inside outside space, melting time across a frozen landscape.
Note:
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Hang Me Up…. Images
WeyWord Times / Writing and Images by Patrick Wey
I am there.