A triumphant light, in everyone

...The time has nearly come for the eternal moment, the triumphant light, the divine birth, and the shining star, to shower us with all their luminous force.
But on the night of the Eve of Christmas, it is said that winter spirits and creeping creatures ascend from rocks and caves, to feed on fears on mankind, the fears of men with darkness and greed in their hearts.
The chance to transcend time was one of the wonderful, yet ambiguous offerings of solstice darkness; at that pivotal moment, men might see into the past and glimpse the days to come. A man might see the shades of those who die in the new year, but among them, he may also see himself.

It is this greed, this human curiosity that often overrode folklore intimidating legends and led to men secretly seeking out an encounter with the ghouls and ghosts of Christmas.
The ghosts entered the houses of their descendents to feast on the offerings left for them and make merry in the night; they gathered in deserted churches at midnight on the Eve. To see them was dangerous, because they were so eager for mortals to join their tattered company; yet there were those who braved the churchyards for the sake of a taste of forbidden knowledge...

Don't go searching for answers of questions that are not yours to ask. Be thirsty, but in the right places. Be less greedy, less selfish.

Embrace the darkness inside you, only to realize that you have a light that glows stronger still.

Merry Christmas, xox Ra-Ra

The two hemispheres

I take my coffee black, no sugar, no milk, with a splash of cold water at the rim, so I can taste the invigorating aroma that already fills my nostrils without further delay. This is a predictable, self-inflicted habit circa 7.30am on weekdays that exhilarates the mind and triggers the conqueror in me to 'Carpe Diem'.  

I applaud simplicity when I see it, I relish it, I revel in it. Nothing simpler than a black cup of coffee. Check.

In a day that could hold many intricate patterns of behaviour, of events, of sequences, of randomness, these will remind you; will jolt your gut, will make you realise that when you strive to control your trepidation to be able to predict situations before they develop, is in fact a justified one. Control, what control? Control of a routine? No, that would be utterly boring, to the point of a predetermined mental death.

However, even in routine, I find consolation in the fact that things can just happen or not, and do or don't so totally beyond my sphere of influence. Although this frequently frustrates the rational, commonsensical hemisphere of my brain, the rash, rebellious, restless hemisphere is in subconscious debauchery.


The battle between these two parts is constant. In conflict, in contrast, what you feel compels you to act, but what you think compels you to hold back.

Driven by a need to feel protected, safe and secure, your choices may lead you to have a comfortable life, with a house overlooking a calm and tranquil lake. Where the water is crystal clear, as glassy as a mirror, and there isn't a ripple in sight. Breathe in, breathe out....yes, how lovely. How long til you suffocate in the want of air, the lack of a wind gust to tickle the water's surface? A throw of a pebble to add to the timid lake-bed below?


How long til you crave the turbulent sea, with its violent crashing waves, its storms, its force, its hidden mystical depths?

Not long...look out for the signals 'you' send up in smoke for 'you' to see.


Ra-Ra

"Under water where thoughts can breathe easily
Far away you were made in the sea
Just like me"

"Psychic changes are born in your heart entertain
A nervous breakthrough that makes us the same"


 - Red Hot Chilli Peppers

Words versus Music

What is it about melodised words that get us going? That gets me going? That triggers a strong emotional reaction that the same words, unmarried to a set of notes, may in certain cases leave me, well not indifferent entirely depending on content, but with such a watered down version of the same feeling.

Number one: for sure it’s the Words. The Words create lines of verse in our heads, prose or poetry, other peoples’ thoughts and concerns that form a story every time, that are somewhat open to interpretation within the boundaries the Words themselves set.
Mostly it’s unhappy or distraught stories that make the headlines. And this is a universal truism, universal throughout time and across vast geographical distances. An example is what makes a good successful news story nowadays? Crimes, scandals, disasters and general hardship. Either that or what is increasingly popular is reality TV and celebrity gossip, which serves its purpose to demean the people we ourselves have foolishly put on pedestals. Or to look at past times, open your old History books, they are filled with war, plague, famine, economic crises. The list continues along the same lines.
Let’s face it, writing Black and Gray has always been way hotter than writing Pink and Pop in general. (This is why I have strategically chosen ‘Gray’ as the title of the blog, my ulterior motive is to become popular, famous and to end up being gossiped and traduced by the media of the future, and finally to conquer the world which has been my dream since I was introduced to Nikleodeon’s ‘Brain’ character – I expect a little grin from my readers at this point, am I correct?)
There is something about the bleakness of misery, the agony of pain, the anxiety of distress, the prison of unrequited love that is most popular, because it stirs darker emotions than writing about the eternal sunshine of a happy and gloriously elated mind. Therefore, Dark is Powerful.    

Number two: for sure it’s not just the Words. For definite it’s the Music. It has this incredible ability of moving you in deeper levels than any bunch of words could, generally speaking. There are times when you can listen to the intro of a piece and are instantly on board a ship embarking on a journey. A journey that is entirely yours, a journey that does not bound you, a journey that is unchartered. Music has no language, and yet it can so easily ‘talk’ to people of totally different speech patterns and codes.

OK I should not diss the Words. I like words, since I am not a musician or an artist, they are the only form of expression I have. All forms of creativity and of expression are powerful. Its about creating something that emanates from within, that only the initial soul can feel, that can then be tangible to others in one of the five senses.

I actually revere the Words. It’s just that yesterday, although I felt totally immune and impenetrable to certain set of them, I broke at the sounding of the Music.

I take my previous contemptuous judgment away with me and leave you with this:

Listen to the Words or Music that fill your soul, that speak from your heart to your mind.

“You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.”
― C.S. Lewis.

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Indeed The Grays Can Shine

Trainspotted

Last night I dreamt of trains; of the past and of the present. No, my subconscious was not preoccupied by the ones of the future and that is not without meaning.
Steam locomotive hauled cargo-bourn squealers and bogies, passenger carrying luxury carriages with all the long-gone glitz and glamour of another era.
Then the Metropolitan tube-type ones that converge and disperse forming underground labyrinths that connect the bustling city above, the grande vitesse ones travelling at phenomenal speeds from one end of the country to the other.

“Life is a train of moods like a string of beads; and as we pass through them they prove to be many colored lenses, which paint the world their own hue, and each shows us only what lies in its own focus.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I remember enjoying the scenery whilst sipping on mint tea in the velvet-dressed dining car of the Orient Express (not to be confused with the Venice Simplon OE that continues to run). I was being softly lulled by the rattling and rocking of the rail joints every now and again. The only annoyance was the constant giggling of a lady whom I could not see from my window seat and the occasional thick cloud of smoke that exuded from a co-passengers’ cigar. Waving it away, I notice my sleeve and then I glance down at my chest. I am wearing Elsa Schiaparelli chiffon and I can smell the unmistakable no. 5. The year is 1929 as far as I can discern from a neglected newspaper across the next dining table; my accent suggests I am British and I have just overheard that the journey of the carriage is London-Paris-Constantinople.  

At the realization of this new found identity, the smell, the sound and the feel of my surroundings start to change; I am on a platform with a map in my hand while people, voices and vibrations are spinning around me. There is brick and metal, and addlepated souls, shifting from one line to another in a frantic dance. Their faces are indifferent, critical, livid and unwelcoming, and they blur in and out of focus; and then I get the sense that I am lost, I am actually totally unaware of where I am.

You are now permitted to panic.

Look at the map! 
Concentrate, and look at your map. Where was it you were going? Think!
No that is a difficult one, let’s try: where are you now? Perhaps that is an easier one to crack.

The sign on the platform says ‘Gare du Nord’ and it begins to become clearer now. Paris.
I suddenly have an unsettling feeling that I do not have my 3.20Euro billet and 4 persons in green outfits have locked me in target from the furthest end of the platform. Damn, I could have sworn I am not responsible for this predicament! There must be someone else to blame, but not enough time to be playing ‘Point the Finger’. The only escape route is to get in to the approaching train. Success, but 50euro shorter in self-respect.

So I guess I should be headed for Constantinople, but I would much rather travel by sea there. The Bosporus gleaming, the gulls squawking, hovering over the waters’ surface hoping for a careless shallow swimmer.  But that is not my destination, I have been there before, I have tasted its offerings, and seen its sights, it cannot be that I should be returning.


Blank.

The dream ends and I am left with a poignant thought: a comfortable past, a disheveled present, and no insight of the future.  I guess that makes it much more exciting, don’t you? :)

Food for thought: Trust your dreams, your mind knows yourself more than anyone.

The Waiting, The Waking, The Calling...

Tense as if your muscles are on constant strain

Blank as if your mind is empty

Numb as if your soul has been decanted

And you wait, in the waking

Perched on your seat,

Grabbing the armrests with all your fingers' might

And still you wait, at the most awkward hour of the day

Waiting for the calling of the darkest hour when its' clear

There is clarity in the dark, in the night,

In the comfort of the silver anti-sun

It's beams, they guide your senses and dissolve all fences

When you realise, you digest, you no longer resist

That you are indeed a child of the night.

“Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make.”
― Bram Stoker, Dracula

If you listen closely, you will hear, they are calling for you.

Wake up the ghouls of Halloween, that have fallen in slumber again, tonight!

You will not see them, you will feel them.

'The most beautiful things in life are the things you cannot see.

That's why you close your eyes when you cry, when you dream and when you sleep.'