/m/ - Monologue

It’s surprisingly to understand why that sonification approach gradually became so intelligible to me.

Imagination per se couldn't be self-sufficient, it is dependent. And "experience" is the same. They are inferior only because they just couldn't be able to be exist alone.
They are waiting to be utilized, to be extracted to theories, to arts, to music pieces. They are reactive.

Normally I don't treat myself as a person. I'm transforming myself to a song.

阳光随着一同的惊呼洒在他们身上
没有送别，也没有临走前的握手
幽静的异国古道是致幻的飘带
一定会给他们带来片刻解脱的幻觉

闭上眼睛凝定神思，只见
冬夜木屋里善良的女孩正铺开满地的手枪
另一位站在积雪的窗台前喝着热酒
预测黎明之后的更多交谈
也许将成为彼此的知心
祝福对方的成功或失败

这样的梦，在最无辜的诗人的梦中闪现
在一件事结束前
人的语言就好像欢快的弦乐一样总加快速度
人的精神在收缩，心变得寒冷如冰
总能知道，没有什么比拿走不属于自己的任何自然去陶醉
而更加荒谬
倒掉热酒，也走出冬夜的庇护所，将自己身体劈开
孩子的友谊就这样结束

Be an noble man. stand in solid ground and die in a wild. This is how the solely Love begins.
The Love without anyone else.
Sing songs for those who dead in the distant past but shouldn't have died that young.
The Love with another mysterious who.

People feel horrified when they realize that their so-called destiny/fate is largely predictable. Events are merely in a calculated sequence, and everything happens within that calculation.
The Chinese BaZi and purple star system emphasize the calculation of societal & individual events in this very way. I realized a long time ago that this is what makes thought/idea incredibly free and unrestrained, with a depth that is genuinely unpredictable. I mean, when they are compared, they are not in the same level obviously.
Only the content of thinking and feeling can be meaningful. "Thinking" almost dominates everything unpredictable. "Feeling" collaborate with "thinking", resulting in Art that possesses considerable depth.
This is called Art, not destiny/fate.

- beloved is the image of the God for a poet
- my comment: If beloved alone is really the image of a god, that is a image of a fake god or the fake gods.
- when they comment on a random normal spiritual-less poet: He doesn't know how he wrote his poetry, he just see words in nature.
- my comment: the process of the forming of a poetry (non-spiritual) is not that "magickal". They know, and they are not able to "see", they imagine, they think or feel. Spiritual poets who able to "see" write "boring", universal beautiful / ugly poetry.

This is truly spiritual:
>the visions I saw I did not perceive in dreams, or sleep, or delirtum, or by the
>eyes of the body, or by the ears of the outer self, or in hidden places; but I
>received them while awake and seeing with a pure mind and the eyes and ears
>of the inner self, in open places, as God willed it. How this might be is hard
>for mortal flesh to understand.
>Hildegard of Bingen

"Spiritual life" is fake spiritual.
Imagination is fake spiritual.

Jung, Steiner, Bingen, Swedenborg are truly spiritual.
Mozart, Beethoven, Xenakis, Novalis, most artists or poets are Spirit, they are not truly spiritual. They don't have visions.

Truly spiritual is not necessarily really superior to anything else, but truly spiritual is truly spiritual. Truly spiritual is have the abilty to literally see visions. This is not imagination or Art. Don't confusing "spiritual" with Art, Music and Spirit.

遥远的传说
古代的世界
在每一个幼年的
心灵雕刻下谜语
你从远方向走来
随意就驱散迷雾
让未来与过去
一样清晰可见

注定远离的孩子
沉默前行的老者
哀叹着纯粹的词语
还未提炼就遭遗失

I know there's always a past for every individual. But I don't or can't sense a past, a history or a memory of myself. I don't think they have really existed, I couldn't feel it, anymore. I myself reject this tendency, my confirmation of that memory, and also "in reality" I have no feeling and memory on them. I'm sure some remaining memories have all been corrupted by me. So responsibly speaking, I've lost my memories, and many things that related to all my past life.
I'm malicious simply because of this. There will always be an anger burning inside my mind and I can't easily face my lost of memories. I used to think that those memories should be real. It's plain, because you can confirm the details with the people associated with those memories. But gradually some detailed can't be confirmed anymore. They really can't sense the existence of me. Especially when pain has become the mainstay of all memories. I'm forced to lost memories, and I'm essentially pleased with this lost, this final result. But I hadn't hoped I'd lose those, and I think the lost is unfortunately the result of external world that at some point I lost control of. When I think about it, I'm filled with regret and bitterness fills my mouth. Somehow all interactions with the world gave me a feeling that it's all in vain.
I only know that there was an mythical past that really existed that has no relation with anyone (only with myself) and it related to golden the color, and dying fish on the ground, and the time of nightfall. Any random combination between them could be the source of any of those written poems. After finished Jung's autobiography I'm fairly certain of that. Also, all the memories of my past life were so vivid and real, the first time a poem formed, the first time learnt Haskell.
But when there is anyone else in the memory, the memory is no longer pure and therefore not trustworthy and must be discarded…

I hat(v)e to say this. But love as a feeling is overrated. If there's anything essential thing in love, It's always instantaneous and image-thinking, or it's just like a (real) dream that a modern man couldn't grasp. (sometimes, some dreams were connected with a feeling of love so close to a kind of light, white sun, silent water or warm fire, or an image of heaven, or eternal solitude. It was even identity to reproductive pleasure, harmony.)
It's a kind of, deepened memory, sometimes altered and sometimes not.
When the activity of maintaining this love has to take into account another person on the other side, endless impurities come into your life in unimaginable ways. And then I had to see the death, to see the darkness. I couldn't close my eyes, and its nihilistic image horrified me. It gradually became an embarrassment and my hatred gradually came in. My "memory" became so good that I began to recall all the unfair and pain over and over again. Those painful moments flowed by gently like a river, but with loud rumble.
Sometimes I have to switch between hate and love. Eventually it's hard to tell which is hate or love. It ends up being entirely dependent on mind, discards all original feelings.