You Forget

You forget, and by doing that you win nothing, but you gain nothing too.
Time passes through everything, and sees everything. Life, on the other hand, can flourish, change, but unlike time it can also stop. Stop like a broken watch, vanish to undreamt proportions, and all the way into irretrievablebility.
A moment continues till it is stopped - that moment continues without yourself being aware that it is one single continuing moment, which can be stopped only by death.
And then, that moment stops for you, time passes by, as somebody elses moment too. Both your life and your moment have stopped in a single spot.
The moment is insignificant without the cognition of intoxicating cosmos – cosmos of men and gods, cosmos of unfailing dreams, dreams of pencil and colour - fragrant dreams that you weave for yourself in order to apprehend, or endure the image of yourself and the other – (false) image, un-real and un-concrete image – the cognition of that which lives in the relm of ‘as if’.
The real and unreal are the attributes of one and the same iterative image, which in any given moment of anybody’s subconsciousness continuously flows from one and the same moment of different/other persons, who create the image of their own but singular moments - they take off the burden, soothing the mutual dreams-suppressed cognition.
We ran away from the placid and silent, running away from significant, searching for supposed knowledge, too weak to accept the fact that what we should actually know, we already know – and that the only thing that we need to know, is to forsake the breathing within the image, to immerse and break the mirror of our own fear.

It is Summer. The Sun flashes against the shivery surface of the cold sea that has been shaken and awaken by the strong wind that has been blowing for the last couple of days. The sea is glassy and blue, and as ploughed, it reflects glimpses of the flaming sun restlessly.
It burns.
The leaves of the trees behind me whisper green from the rain that had been pouring before the wind. The Sun and the wind and the earth smell with one and the same tone – one has elapsed through the other, going in a circle, supplementing each other.
Words vanish in front of me in vibrating glances of the sun that is becoming hotter, and the wind in colaboration fades, and the heat of light-blue sky, washed by the rain and wind becomes intolerable.
I am rolling over on a towel by the sea.
I am incapable of holding onto a single thread of thought within my own consciousness – the only thing of which I am aware at the moment is the heat that is coming to me from the cosmos.
I am tossing and turning as a fish that is running out of air. My skin burns, and from within I do too. I am sweating and the drops are merging into water.
I become a pond that runs through the ravines into the sea.