Sanjarenje Bez Kajanja

Probuđeni i pospani kročimo kroz titrajuću sliku svijeta koja je čvrsta i promjenjiva točka u svakom trenutku, u svakoj realnosti i u svakom tvojem “ja”.

Kroz supstraktno obuzeti kanvas koji je predjelo iluminacije i gorući objed konačnog porinuća našeg svjetlosnog broda u naručje rijeke koja ima svoju vlastitu glavu.

Svoj vlastiti arbitražni ego koji nije samo skupina divljih brzaca, već je i taj vodopad koji pada u nepoznato, i na tom dnu je osvještenje, srđba, žrtvovanje ili smrt prijašnjeg tebe.

Tebe koji tada više ne priča samo sebi, već komunicira sa totalitetom svega. Bog je samo nekoliko centimetara od tebe, a riječ Božja se poklapa perfektno sa tvojim uskrsnutim naumom.

Križ postaje impotentna parodija, a ti implodirana logičko-ili-logična, super-fokusirana ideja, oslobođeni razum bez zakazanog stropa koji će, ako pozorno sluša svoj unutarnji pjev, nadživjeti tisuću magičnih godina.

Totalnost egzistencije postaje bezvremenska unifikacija, prethodna slika morficira se u konačni životni klin; u sanjarenje bez kajanja.

Hyperboria postaje hyperinvolucija koja se katapultira u svim smjerovima, utvrđena te neosporna kruna Božje ideje, a vječno zimski “bor” u nama postaje drvo odvojeno od sprega prijašnjeg dekonstruktivnog, verbalnog mišljenja, odljuštene sfere svega što vidimo kao prolazno, nametnuto i kao prijašnje.

Bog je konačno živ kada prije spomenuta rijeka postaje kristalno čisti bijeli most, preko kojeg jednostavno kročimo bez trošenja snage da bismo savladali tu nemoguću prirodnu silu u kojoj sniva najzeleniji san.

Bifrost je ideja otključana u njedrima Boga koji više ne vidi stvarnost k’o jedinu induciranu, dosadnu mjeru, kao potrošenu minutu u kojoj strah od izgubljenog je apatetična sjena duboko zakopane aveti koja jede samo postojanje vremena, magija u kojoj čovjek permanentno gubi jer nikad ne ustaje, ne shvaća svoju Božju krv, već uvijek umire jer ta minuta, ta sekunda, taj neuhvatljivi sat, taj ubrzani dan je sve što postoji, dok metalni polarni križ i njegova težina, nabijena svom krivnjom ovog svijeta, ga ponovo te opet ne pokopaju do sljedećeg materijalnog čina, zajedno sa friško iskopanom crnom zemljom.

Zemljom koja je tada vidljivo crna, a djeluje simpatetički na crninu i tugu ugašene egzistencije uhvaćene u pasivni koštac sa brojem šest.

Šest je elementarna granica i neprešutljiva frikcija mogućeg i nemogućeg, sirovog intelekta i anđela vjere, te saznanja koji tada samo zagonetno šuti i ne čuje Boga koji je opet umro da bi se rodio u istom svijetu u kojem zbroj svih mogućih “ja”, taj njegov ocvali status, nikad nije promijenjen.

Promijenjen na najmogućoj dubini, gdje kap vode je burni ocean, a stramputična cesta je živo grotlo rotirajuće te samožive galaksije.

I tako ponovo ustaješ potpuno crn, izgubljen u velebnom mraku vlastitog satirično ispisanog makijavelističnog poraza.

Iluminacija pokrivena rodnim crnilom i crna, neshvaćena smrt koja više priča svojom nekonačnom mirnoćom prema statičnoj praznini (void), bezdanu nerealnih očekivanja, nego otvara vrata prema svetom bijegu u kojem Bog nije apostrofirana bestialna životinja kojoj diletantski prijeti svaki prijeki mortalni šum.

U tom zamagljenom kontekstu svakog trenutka fragilnost života je vidljivo žigosana opomena koja simbolizira nerafiniranost razotkrivenja konačnog postojanja, već sve je usmjereno prema jednoj i konačnoj točki u kojoj se utaborila nijema riječ superprolaznog tehničkog života. I tada sam život, dok se živi, postaje pogubljeni epitom aljkavo-tvrdoglave, višestruko fragmentirane smrti.

Da bi preživio stimuliranu dualnost, moraš shvatiti bazičnu i akutnu realnost, a da bi našao Boga, moraš naći što leži iza miga najsmjelijeg sunca, iza pjesme vjernog trubadura čija pjesma, strofa, sjedi potpuno mirno u najboljem naručju jednog te jedinstvenog mjesečevog roga.

Ponekad svijet je ono gdje te ponese nemirna avanturična noga, a ponekad sanjiva glava samo je mokra, neispavana i istaraumatizirana sova.

Zašto bi zvijezdama posuta maćeha i njene dvije konkubine trebale biti misao stroga? Ne možeš do Boga bez valjanog uloga.

Ponekad taj ironični ulog, ta nepredvidljiva kocka si baš ti.

I svi tvoji, kako najbolji tako i najgori, snovi.

Awakened and sleepy, we walk through the flickering image of the world, which is a solid and changeable point in every moment, in every reality and in every one of your selves.

Through a substractively consumed canvas that is the appetizer of illumination and the burning meal of the final launching of our vessel of light into the embrace of a river that has a mind of its own.

Its own arbitrating ego, which is not merely a group of wild rapids but is also that waterfall falling into the unknown, and at its bottom lies awakening, wrath, sacrifice, or the death of the former you.

You, who then no longer speak only to yourself but communicate with the totality of everything, God is only a few centimeters away from it, and the word of God coincides perfectly with your resurrected intention.

The cross becomes an impotent parody and you an imploded logical-illogical idea, a mind without a ceiling that will outlive a thousand magical years.

The totality of existence becomes unification, the previous image morphs into the final life spike; into dreaming without regret.

Hyperboria becomes hyper involution that catapults itself in all directions, the crown of God’s idea, while the eternally wintery “pine” within us becomes a tree separated from the constraints of previous deconstructive thinking, peeled-off spheres of everything we see as transient and previous.

God is finally alive when the aforementioned river becomes a crystal-clear white bridge, across which we simply walk without wasting our strength to overcome that impossible natural force in which the greenest dream sleeps.

Bifrost is an idea unlocked in the bosom of a god who no longer sees reality as a unit of induced, abrupt measure, as a spent minute in which the fear of the lost is an apathetic shadow of a deeply buried specter that consumes only the existence of time, a magic in which man permanently loses because he never rises, never understands his divine blood, but always dies because that minute, that second, that elusive hour, that accelerated day is all that exists, while the metal cross and its weight, loaded with all the guilt of this world, bury him again and once more until the next material act, together with the freshly dug black earth.

Earth that is visibly black then and acts sympathetically upon the blackness and sorrow of an extinguished existence caught in a passive struggle with the number six.

Six is the boundary and friction of the possible and the impossible, of raw intellect and the angel who then only remains silent and does not even hear the god who has died again in order to be born into the same world in which the sum of all possible “I”s has never had that status changed.

And once again you rise completely black, lost in the magnificent darkness of your own satirically written Machiavellian defeat.

Illumination covered in primordial blackness and the black, misunderstood death that speaks more through its endless tranquility toward the static void, the abyss of unreal expectations, than it opens a door toward the holy escape in which God is not an apostrophized bestial animal threatened by every mortal noise, because in that blurred context of every moment, the fragility of life is a warning that symbolizes the unrefined nature of the revelation of final existence, but everything is directed toward one final point in which the silent word of super-transient life has entrenched itself, and life itself, while being lived, becomes the epitome of stubborn, fragmented death.

To survive stimulated duality, you must understand the basic and acute reality, and in order to find God you must find what lies behind the blink of the boldest sun, behind the song of the faithful troubadour whose song, whose stanza, sits completely still in the finest embrace of one single lunar horn.

Sometimes the world is where your restless adventurous foot carries you, and sometimes your dreamy head is merely a wet, sleep-deprived and traumatized owl.

Why should the star-covered stepmother and her two concubines be a strict thought?

You cannot reach God without a valid stake; sometimes that ironic stake, that unpredictable dice, is precisely you.

And all your dreams, both the best and the worst.