The Albatros

This poem, by Baudelaire,

hit me right through the heart, the day I read it in college.

It sang a song, unknown, but familiar, as if meeting a long lost sister.

I remember understanding the Albatros, more than the men.

The men mocking it never even caught a glimpse of my attention, neither did the inflictions they caused on the bird.

There was something about the bird. 

This ugly,

 wonky looking, 

marvel of God.

I was jealous of this creature, because I knew it roamed through His kingdom.

All it knew, all it could do, was to play.

I found Baudelaire to have a sad perspective.

How can the Albatros feel hurt, when it knew not what hurt is.

How could the Men be evil, when they knew not what evil is.

If Mosquitos are not evil, or mischievous, 

all they want is to suck your blood.

Then why would others be so evil, or mischievous, 

if all they can do is suck your Soul.

-Marc Murad

Story is the enemy of the artist

My hand is a special, or should I say not a thing, but a resonance

this resonance seems to call to me

or I should say, I feel as if I am called to it

it does not really care about me, it is just there, to my disposal

but when I am living within it, when I am absorber by it’s tasks

it seems to bring inside ma a sense of belonging, of peace. like nothing is really there anymore

as i am writing this, i feel my hands dance on the keyboard, hitting each notes as if they are enjoying it. they are definately not masters at it, because if they where, I would’nt need my eyes

but there is also something unique about my eyes

and more definitely my eyes in relationship to my hands

what is it about y eyes that seem to resonate?

I am not sure anymore

I feel like all my life was my eyes, like if I it took over everything else

like if my eyes became the perpetrator of my mind’s wishes

never my hands

my hands where never meant to receive, that can only give

and there is something that attracted me about that aspect

my hands certainly feel

but the feeling that my hands provide me, do not in any way excite me

my eyes however, can only judge

they can only fix

maybe it is the way they have been trained

to observe, analyze, and fix

but are they really what they where meant for?

my eyes where mean for me to see

but I do not wish to see

not in the literal sense

but the figurative sense however, that is something else

I wish to see

see and understand or i would say just see

the truth

or reality

or live

I wish to live

i cant say this word without insulting the true meaning of it

as if it was highjacked, like my eyes, but sticky mud

it is creeping back in

this thing

taking back it’s place

as if there is so much of it, that it can just fill back in 

the emptiness

the void

the clear sky

since it has had this space for such a long time

that it doesn’t even bother ask, or wait for an invitation

it comes back, like bone cells fill a blood cloot

it doesn’t ask if it can or can not

and surprisingly, there is a hidden irony

my heart wants to laugh, when it hears this

it wants to scream at me,

a warning

its waiving its hands to get my attention

but the glass is so thick

the glass is so opaque

that I can not really see it

as if if I would see it, i would begin to laugh

there is a tragic and comedic misunderstanding

tragic because it is death

comedic because it is nothing

The rabbithole

This way that i want to explore,

has a style to it, unique to me. 

It has some efficient way, that is not to my choosing, but to the choosing of the things that are summoned, by my own essence. 

There is a style, everyone has a style, and the style is never motivated, it never comes out of volition.

It is like a cloud, that has a certain density, and another that looks lighter, almost ghost-like.

If you ask these clouds, they say that they actually come from the same source, that they are the same thing.

But we see them as different. 

This appreciation that we paint in our mind, 

this is what we call style.

Style, 

is given such an immense importance nowadays, and what humans don’t see is that Style, is not the thing that we profoundly respect, 

We just think it is, and in thinking it is, we are all blind to what is hidden, behind every style.

Legends of mankind all had different styles.

Would you say that a Picasso, is more legendary than Myamoto Musashi

Would you say that Jesus, is more of a legend of humanity than Boudha?

You may believe so if you wish, but trying to answer this question will not lead you to the hidden essence of what is hidden behind style.

This is the pitfall,

where everything just drops down so many floors,  where the idea of Death  creeps in with a reptilian fashion, by unexplainable surprise, because you could have never predicted it’s motive.

 This Death, gleaning into it, freezes me, and this freezing has a funniness to it.

Once you catastrophically make contact with the ground.

The Pitfall transforms

This piece of Void, of nothingness, of End. Suddenly changes into this curious room, walls painted from an intricate dance of roots, weaving through the dirt, the rocks.

Snakes flow through them like an influx of electric signal roams within neurons.

Larvae eat at them, like osteoclasts eating away bone.

in this Void, this Death, 

all that remains movemen. 

A movement that, as complex and intricate and beautiful and evoking it could be, is still Nothing.

The Mind attacks from behind, holding you in a clever new way, the salesman of the century.

Its deadly blow, is impossible to escape, 

for it has been diligently practicing and perfecting it’s art, 

The master storyteller, and it’s nighttime child, 

has forever been You.

- Marc Murad

Freedom is impossible to explain

Words will never capture

Neither paintings

nor movie.

the thing is within the writing

it is within the painting

it is within the filming

I just said an untruth

the thing is not any of those

for I have pointed myself , once again,to the wrong thing

because I have used words

even the word ‘’within’’ is a difficult word

even the word ‘’word’’ is difficult word

the best definition of ‘’word’’

is ‘’lie’’

it seems so extreme, so out of bounds

but the concept of extreme disappears, the moment you experience it

the moment it is within your bones

I felt this within my bones

I felt the vibrations

The majestic

I am meant to be there, because I come from here

I am meant to go there, because now I see

I see what I really am, I feel what I really am

nothing, and nothingness belongs to the wild

people go to the forest, and don’t even feel it

and I used to not feel it,

and that was It because of the interference

the voice inside

the image maker inside

all along according to my art I thought what I wanted to do was create, 

that is the great irony

because all i wanted to do was disappear

The enemy of a creator

Once someone decides to start something, he needs to ask himself why exactly is he staring it.

I have always seen myself as a creative person.

But I am starting to shift my perception of how and why I am such.

I have always thought that I could bring out something from a hat.

Writing has never really been with me.

Speaking has, and orating has as well.

Speaking from the heart, drawing from the heart.

Society really is the enemy of the creator.

Why? Because society creates categories, in terms of good and bad, tasteful and untasteful.