Sepulchral frost

Sepulchral Frost

The gravestone’s coldness dissects streams of wind.

In solitude’s transparency a sepulchral rainfall bursts.

And on the headstone of my last resort

An inscription shines, hidden by withered leafs.

Six feet under the ground: it lies, consumed by worms,

Covered with loose, airy earth, with eyelids eaten away:

My corpse, forsaken organic matter,

That ceased to act as a living embodiment of mind-body unity;

That is simply a rotten mass feasted by Nature,

Out of which my corpse emerged some years ago,

While still being alive, hurrying to live, spurting towards joys

And sorrows of yet another illusion called the life path

Of an isolated personality that grows and develops under the blue sky,

The moon and the stars that shine with an elusive mystery,

The mystery which is so easy to miss in the face of the enchanted

Vibrating web of meanings that we weave as we dwell in our collective dreaming.

In my heart, ever since the moment of my birth, there was this sepulchral frost,

And behind the left shoulder, near my ear, I felt someone’s breathing,

And someone’s whisper pontificated to me that, while being alive,

Somewhere there, very near, right in my Heart

I’ve never been born. And my hour has struck but nothing changed:

All these years were dreamt by me when my body was already enthralled

By this cadaveric freeze. Another day on the planet Earth,

In the Milky Way galaxy, on the outskirts of this universe

Was lived by me. In vain or not in vain, that is the question of no significance

On the back of the monumental triumph of kosmic void

And her unstoppable life, in contrast to which I am only

A weak shimmering of a body shell swept away by a blink of Eternity.

Let the memory of me as of an unnoted sparkle remain

In the great sentient archives of the undying Kosmos.

And one day when the right time comes the good I’ve done here and now

Will grow into a gigantic wave, humongous sea of Goodness

Which will destroy all ignorance and bring eternal peace and joy—

At least for a moment. And I will cry for all the cursed and all the blessed.

April 27, 2010 

(translated from Russian)

The wind is blowing

When I look at you, multiple perspectives converge in the same moment. All these perspectives point to different planes of being; and the same action is reflected in all the dimensions simultaneously.

On the level of the bodily self, when I look at you, I feel my heart is pumping; and—say, you're a beautiful girl—I feel warmth all over my body and an unbearable attraction towards yours, the unmistakable desire to touch your skin and smell your hair and give you a hug and cuddle with you right now. On the level of the emotional self, I'm overwhelmed with experiences of joys and sorrows and fears and amusements and (dis)satisfactions and pleasures; and if you reciprocally express some emotions to me, I feel emotionally connected to you: I smile. On the mental level, I want to communicate and compare my concepts and networks of ideas about the world against yours, so that the opposites meet and syntheses emerge; I want to verbalize my worldview, resonate with yours, dive into your conceptual systems and understand them both from within and without; and on that level there's nothing sexier than if you do the same for me. On the level of the soul, it's the light that I feel inside myself and yourself; it's the ever-changing dance we are both enjoying in the reflection of each other... and yet at the same time it is the ultimate supraprofessional poker tournament, when we sit at the poker table in front of each other, looking eternally after each other, smoking cigars and impartially bluffing while playing our card and staking multiple universes of experience and individual lives against each other. And when you playfully bluff, I look into your eyes, and the keyless gate opens, letting in the space that flows through me as I disappear into the spectrum of infinite humming Light pulsating in the void of cessation. The ever-present Silence knocks me out. And then, during the infinity of non-being, I playfully re-emerge as the eternal recurrence into multitudes of selves here and there. And still there's no wind, there's only the blowing.