Writings from a French Cafe
Lately, I’ve been creating pages in my writing tablets. Just a moment at the coffee shop, at a bar, anywhere, where I simply just write and create as much of whatever I can in various forms, patterns, etc, to fill up a complete page in one stroke. I wanted to share one of these pages with you from my recent trip up north though, I have to confess, you will only get 50% of the enjoyment as the layout and art that accompanies it is worth the other 50% of appreciation. Still, you can sense a feel of it.
The 5 writings from a French Café:
When one has gone years veering from the written word as I have,
finding the flow of exposing the soul becomes as arduous a task as
discovering one exists within me.
In “reality”, it is only four letters creating another word for the
puppeteer of my thoughts.
There are so many dark shadows,
so many twisted definitions of what and how I observe life to be.
I have often wished to be with someone, anyone.
And I seem to be quick capturing the attention of those I am
The rest, those of my real desire,
tend to bring about all my cowardice and fears.
It is always them who remind me of the insecurities I shy from.
There is such a stark contrast
between how I know I should accept life kharmically,
how I tend to approach life
and how I would like to live through this existence.
once I eliminate sex
as an act and desire
from my thoughts and wants
I am free to express
my childlike indulgence of sexuality
is a love deeply rooted
the animal instincts I am comprised of.
I, as you, must embrace
this desirable instinct.
It is the only way I will survive.
Life seems to have as much meaning and it is insignificant
Every thing that is accomplished
every great stride that is made
in the spirit and importance of “the moment”
ripples little or no effect
a fortnight or generation from that occurrence
Death and Life occur once
both as quickly as they are forgotten
Where, then, does that leave our existence?
For what, then, is any purpose?
We are a species now consumed by subtle guilt.
Must find love.
Success will continually define me.
Strive to climb from financial ruin.
Desire all we can.
See it all.
Be a Samaritan of peace and humility.
These are all concepts that should arise from secret, sacred desire.
When did living well become such a pressured obligation?
A writer’s greatest curse
is our lack of ability
in succinctly describing the world as we see it.
If we were able to,
we would no longer be writers,
for we would have nothing more to say
beyond the handful of arranged letters
that would be needed to explain all that is.