The Daily Sunday Still Afloat

You are killing your imagination, is it fair? Shouldn’t there be a way out to the fields of creativity? A documentary about architecture that I have seen on BBC guided me along the touch of the human on the space. The spirit becomes visible in the transformed lucidity welcoming nature in its inspiring perfection. As the light dances on the surfaces greeting objects, I questioned my world of numbers once again. Although it is another aspect of my unreality, I probed into the hilarious unreal with the meaningful in its musicality. There is no tune in my every day endeavours. Hollow sounds of repetition drown the excitement in me. Even a program in Spanish lured me into the realm of the different sounds melted into diversity. How long will I ignore the call in me? How long will I suffer in the web of numerical chic jacket? My independence is contingent on my will but I still endure the self-imposed capitulations. There is hope in David Bowie’s Changesbowie caress. There is still a room for taking refuge in the longed for denial of the captivity. My Sundays has become a series of confessions that I am helplessly got caught in. The song China Girl is a great expanse for a worthy travel into dreams as she says “Shhhhhhh”. I am stylishly a coward, being deaf to the vibrant in me. As the lines invitingly bend in my haunting visuals, I am ironically destined to walk the usual. My time grows into a wastebasket in the surrendered. My coasts are rioting as they enchant me to come out. Am I aware which way to go? Is the curving out a worthy blurred destination? The evolving incredible innate form is the harbinger of the should-be –formed. Is the unlimited a pant of exhaustion? In the desired to be melt into there is the ravishing puzzle to be occupied with. In this flow of touches, the revelation is a thrill. The entrancing hurry of shapes and sounds swarm along the city. The rational mathematics of physicality and the mind had been intertwined on a Sunday cruise. The soul is reckless to the aftermath. There will be times when numbers would serve me. They call me goal-oriented, despite the convulsive embrace of overwhelming oceans in me. A verbal street engulfed in Izmir is ornamented with the playful lights. Today David Bowie is my guest in my corridors. Why do I immure myself in my being condemned to an office while the daylight is a gift of chase? A bird always misses the brimming sky, in the golden cage games of the alienation. In time we still need servants. It is the progress we brag about. Music is the cure for the Beyond City of Eyelids. Another exasperation soothed by the beautiful. Another reaching out in recurrent words! Another Sunday! Another dance of the imagined! Life is a sunshine I am happy to indulge in. A room of my own, only frequented by me has become a musical hangout of my contemplation. As I share my Sunday ripples, there is the promise of a distant touch on the horizon, a canvas of dreams. A day will come when I would belly my sails toward the almost unlimited. A note of lunacy is heard in the simplicity of the plunge into life. Just a wonderful splash of colours, that is to be frozen in the soul, to be softened in the hospitable warmth. The streets are liquefied as images race one another. This heavenly hell of interference is passionately unbelievable. The admired is the inspiration for the tool of gratitude. She says…in my veins.

20/11/2005

The Daily Sunday…still afloat

Friends can unsubscribe any time.