I bow before those who can make up fairy tales.
I love those who have understood
what they are and do not need to listen to them.
I delight in the suffering of those who,
not understanding, still want to sell them.

 

 

It seems to him a miracle when every fairy tale looks on the dark side of the things.

The listener of fairy tales that stands under the baldachin and is free from rain is the patient of the world.

Illusion, and especially the hope for it, is sweeter to him than the sweetness of the life-giving rain.

The nature separated the patients from those who can brew herbs.

The herbal extract is not for swollen ears.

The listener of fairy tails swallows the extract of falsehood easily only to feel sweetness.

 

Once upon a time when falsehood was
sleeping in the cradle, a certain freak
liked swinging the cradle and so he swung
the cradle, and having jumped into
it,  he rocks himself and rocks.

The world gave thoughts unevenly.

Who is guilty of this?

Did desire or longing play this prank?

I will ask a fellow: Where are you rushing?
Shouting, I will ask his and my deeds for peace.
I will tell them,
every human heart: It's enough!
Begging, I will whisper: Enough!

Let the scorn of those who will not regard 'The Tale' as their truth rest on me blissfully.

I desire to bait the territory for your minds.

Sometimes I hear the thought that is similar to my energy, so I run like a madman after the one who

gladdened my heart, I listen to him attentively, and, after a moment of disappointment,

I remain again alone with the thoughts of my heart.

My eyes still tolerate you because I look like you.

But I will not bear to listen to your ravings.

Where, what for and what to do you hurry so much?

Your thoughts irritate my peace.

My truth opposes my and your drudgery, the human one.

Embrace my thoughts with heart.

 

Ignorance starts to give way.

 

The Tutor

Everyone is his own master.
He kept repeating.
He shouted the truth: You live only once!
The drunken eyes of the truth did not recognize me
and sneered at my world.
You will grow up, than you will understand.
People deceived me!
I know some day you will reject their truth.
And falsehood will not be their master for you!
He kept smiling.
He loved life.
He had to drink.

 

Who dares to call anyone a teacher?

Who made himself the one?

The dummy of thoughts that are not his baptized in him a freak.

A seer?

The guesser who solves the riddle of tomorrow?

Why do you not teach that death and life alike are an honor?!

Poor is the teacher who cannot discern importance

in human nothingness.

 

I listen to the sage of the sleeping.
Overwhelmed, I lose my hearing.
I am left speechless.
I go blind.

You

 

An escape from who you were born.
An escape from those who told you what love was.

Poor imagination promised you that your whole life would be a fairy tale.

And now Cinderella’s longing has become a sweet fantasy?

Thoughts hurt you.

Thoughts tire you.

A tired heart.

You desire to follow the heart, and then the desire of the thought comes and you suffer.

Thoughts suppress the heart.

You want to breath freely.

Being yourself, you want to love, eat, dance?

It's too late.

From the beginning you have eaten fermented roots.

You didn't like them?

Will is not sufficient to wake up.

In this sleep, the non-sweet death is always present.

Awakening is an escape.

Into nothingness.

Of infinity.

 

She

 

Her world is the world.

And you?

This is SHE of infinity.

The miracle in the nature, in the humanity.

The only march.

I shall not glorify her!

Adoring, I shall curse her for my existence.

Using the eloquence of my figments, I shall mock her world.

I shall cry over my boldness.

Crying, I shall ask with my heart:

Wasn't my conception perdition for you?- Mother.

Suffering, forgive me the torments of my boldness.

I seek the truth like a child.

The sick child.

 

The funny plays of the humanity with itself, as well as with the whole rest of the enslaved creatures,

are going to the end.

There is no retreat.

As it cannot stop, the mankind becomes similar to Sisyphus' struggle

and grows toward perdition.

The eloquence of experience begins to create the zenith  that equals perdition.

Being a conductor, the nature lets know about itself.

As she does not tolerate the insolence of human doings, it silences them.

The world remains and will remain in inhuman insolence.

Infinitely.

The mankind and the insolence of its history will be concealed deeply in the underground lumber room

in the universe museum.

 

This stigma on my being is suffering.
This stigma is called a man.
I am ashamed myself.
I am ashamed before every tree.
I cannot bear those who are
overconfident of the man.
I shall not wake you up.

 

 
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