beyond the silver moon in a wooden forest pool

I pretend not to wake up in my dream but in reality I wake up in a muffled breath. Someone was there asking : "Where are all of their belonginings?" A slide of fabric awoke me into a nightmare that was not real. Then, she falls into the sweet Morpheus' embrace and lands in a swimming pool in a bikini that keeps untying itself and a black-bearded man appears. She apologises for continuously tying the bikini laces she is shy. She knows this man from her past. He smiles his Marilyn Monroe teeth. She curves into a fetal position in the turquoise water. He asks her:" so have what have you found?" She informs him of her future possible plans but she does not feel she has enough time to explain. Wait. She thinks inside of her. Then he walks into disappearance.
She then walks up wooden bridges under streams of forests, the wood creaks. She is searching for him. But everywhere she goes she finds other friends of his but not him. She runs back to the main area where she met him and suddenly there appear many Italian- architecture windows of apartment buildings which seem to be lit by fog.
Then she goes the opposite way towards the deserted part of a forest. The others appear there too. But he is not there.
He went off somewhere.
She searches for a lighter as she walks with all of them in a line. She wakes up into disappearance.
He and She always communicate in the somewhere. We cannot know if he or she or both know that they do.

Lover of the Past

There is suddenly a blast ... ! The bubble once existed but now it just cannot last. The place of your origin has been forever lost and all you are left now is the nothing of the present the something of the future and the much of the past. Then you decide to chant chant to go against the little wave that breaks right at the edge of the pain-threshold but is it this chant produced by the very substance that you torments?
Is the very chant part of the success that is here and that makes you be here and hear the sounds that other passenger just can't? Is it your fault that passengers are idealized and rushed to the stage when their exams have not been passed or forwarded to them at least? The expectation for it to crumble and fall when it is great and majestic must be the haunting secret of your success. Has the demon taken over you and all you can think is how to muse them into your smile amuse them for a little while and then abuse the small signs on their face to make them not last against the enduring threat-thoughts of your past?
If the question mark dears to breathe then the exclamation drowns in the water like a fish born with lungs .. it is not made to breathe as such... and that is what my writing is made of... The great rises and falls of life.. Zoe as called in Greek...
Remember my reader there is always that phenomenon called TiDE.
But the miracle of the place where nothing comes and nothing goes must be something not to be desired for where is the fun or the hygiene... in that?

post scriptum

All is to be admired and loved in life... how commonplace and yet the lines from this song fit the occasion of today's post: "Flames to dust, lovers to friends, why do all good things come to an end?"

Out of the blue the land of arcadia

Out of the blue there appears a land... Inhabiting the ocean suddenly is put under doubt... and under a cloud you wake up. There is a vision, there is a wish and there is a material side to it witnessing the possiblity of reality. The abstract thoughts render themselves into the most wonderful moment of present. You care for words but preciseness of the product is not worth positively to be posited in some certain category. Because it is there where you want it and you do not want it to go away because it has done so in the past and the excitement and the whiteness of art deco floods the air and the cold is loved to be cold and the warm comfort is forgotten and slides by like a whole millisecond down the margin of four hours.
There appears a question mark but this time you shall consider it normal and proper to the way life bumps. Give it a timeline and when the breath of art-deco expires you shall know.
This time you are aware that eyes not seen are missed the most. But you are afraid not. You have been down this road before.

Something like VOODOO

The sweat is lavitating on your skin, fresh and cold at the same time. The step is quick and exhaustingly excited like the beat. It feels like you have just come out of the gym. The dose of endormorphin pumps inside your arteries as heartlessly as it cannot.
This feeling you cannot name but you can deny not. You tread through the rain and although sun is there to be seen it feels like some great miracle. You wonder what is happening with your tornado of your hair. When you return there is one stare of yours wet-stamped on a surprised mirror. And then you come to wonder where did the beauty come from? Did some evil wind call for it while you were dance-struggling through drops of water and frizzy traffic?
The more stabbs you receive on the fabric of your recently tanned body of a doll it seems the more you think it is everyday life to be moved by some out-of-country force. It is definately not of out of this planet. It is unaware of its power and yet it slides within you despite your layers of clothes.
Give me another stab because it feels so great to be hurt.My fabric of dress is not ordinary. And of course I am addressing myself.