As time passes by

The end of the world is nigh. The end of the world might happen sooner or later. The end of the world has already happened. The world never ends. At least this many opinions turn up concerning the world’s destiny.

Everybody could be right, as the end of the world is a personal belief or experience, associated with anything from stupidity, immaturity, maturity – to wisdom and insight.

Once the veil of Maya is torn away, you realize that even the veil of Maya was the veil of Maya – and that it was always this way.

And time shall be no more…

Relatively viewed, however, this doesn’t mean that there is no time. From this point of view both space and time is – for a good while. Maybe forever.

A screw without an end is a screw without an end. If a screw is getting a bit loose, try another type. The design of the slot is subordinate as long as it fits the screwdriver.

People seeking the truth are screwdrivers. People seeking security in illusions are a bit screwed up.

And time passes by…

Days off

When the muses overflow with energy, they fill up the poets' glasses with their sparkling brew.

But even muses need a day off from time to time.

Translated into human time a day off for a muse could last for weeks, but immediately after returning they function as newly reloaded smartphones, full of messages such as e-mails, text messages, voice messages and new applications.

Delightful mouthfuls for the awaiting poets, instantaneously enjoying large gulps of the newly poured elixir.

The poets are taking their days off at the same time as the muses, but the grass is growing even though it's hardly noticeable, and one fine day the lush meadows are covered with flowers, looking as if they were always there.

You didn't see it come, even though it was felt from deep inside, but when it has arisen, it feels so inevitable and so natural that it could not have been otherwise.

Handheld

”Go and drink some water darling,” Gertrud said.

”No, I’m not thirsty,” her elderly gray-haired husband replied. ”Oh, you meant the dog,” he added a bit disappointed.

”Yes, he has just puked. Perhaps we serve him too many treats.”

”I don’t think so. Usually he doesn’t puke because of the treats.”

The red ball of yarn, lying in the bowl on the table, listened to the old people’s multiple misunderstandings with an inward smile. Often one of them answered from the east, receiving questions from the west, followed by several exchanges of funny remarks until the case was settled.

The yarn was skilfully rolled to a ball by Gertrud, whilst her husband held the red skeins with both hands. He turned them a little up and down, forward and back, in order to avoid misplaced fingers, and at the same time avoiding funny remarks, until all was settled and the yarn in its place. He almost looked as a conductor of a symphony orchestra playing a sensitive nocturne.

In this way the red ball of yarn was born. When the end of the thread was in its place it felt as if the umbilical cord was cut. It, however, was not baptized, but let us call it Ariadne, just to give her a name.

Two more balls of yarn in darker colors were placed in the bowl with knitting needles through their bodies. “It made sense and felt coquettish at the same time,” Ariadne thought. As lying there, quite comfortably and having a fair view, she wondered whether there was a meaning to life, not really being able to specify the thoughts. “It might be too many long threads playing with my mind,” she concluded.

One day Gertrud suddenly grab Ariadne from the bowl, forced the knitting needles out of her and started stitching.

”Whoops,” Ariadne gasped, ”what turns up next? Damn, I’m about to loose my mind as well as the thread. What is this woman doing to me?”

Gertrud started knitting, and as time passed by Ariadne felt, little by little that she grew smaller and smaller. “I am about to reach the end,” she thought with her two minds. “I wonder about the opportunity of a second life? The end feels reachable.”

Right now she lost the clear thoughts, feeling life leaving her body.

“Thank you for everything,” she managed to think before not being here anymore.

”Look now,” Gertrud said to her husband. ”You have got a new scarf. Here you are.”

Suspiciously he mumbled: ”Isn’t it a bit short?”

”It’s long enough and will cover everything necessary.”

A new scarf was born. But within the fibres of the yarn, it felt as a rebirth.

Of course just a feeling.

Cycle

Skinfakse, you beautiful horse, so happy, vibrant and enchanting. You gallops against the wind, accompanied by the sea’s encouraging roar. You have your own bright time, and your tracks in the wet sand are as real as they thoughts-feelings you cherish while stretching out with morning dew like foam on your muzzle.

The world is waiting patiently, and photons cheers.
The time is for siesta, and only innocent timelessness is.
But thoughts-feelings are ocean waves,
and gives back time, while dancing after the wind’s will,
until the time again is silent, the sea calm,
and the day is gone to bed, while Rimfakse gallops
on the golden carpet, the moon then will roll out for him.

The Third Age

When the earth shakes and trembles, it is because Ennosigaios hurls his trident deep into the seabed. Plodded his mighty seahorses angry or just impatient, it caused tidal waves, which had a huge impact on people’s survival. A tidal wave could turn upside down on everything, and if only one of the horses plodded, went the waves high too.

Poseidon or Neptune as he alternately was called in everyday life, was now in his third age, and would like to meet with his two brothers again before his very last trip, which was to go to Shangri-La. He wanted also to see if he could find Merman, so he could say a proper goodbye to him if he was able to talk and celebrate after the separation from his beloved wife, Agnes.

Agnes had promised Merman that she would return to him and their children after a visit to the land, but she failed them. His mood dived with him, and he got a depression that was so deep that a general depression was water compared to it, but Agnes stayed on dry ground, and the children there was never more heard about.

He had not seen his brothers in about six thousand years, but better late than never, as he put it, and invitations to Zeus, Hades and Merman were sent with flying fish, and he also sent bottle-mail for safety’s sake. The invitations were written in Greek, Latin and Sanskrit and bore his watermark, where he held his perpetual trident for fast recognition.

He would keep a wonderful celebration that they would remember for a long time, for this would be his last meeting with the brothers and Merman on this sunlit side of life. It would not last forever, just a few hundred years, because when they had eaten and drunk as plentiful as it was the plan they might gradually become a little tired of each other.

The mermaids choir would entertain with songs about sunsets and sunrises at the oceans horizons, and the walrus, he could probably get to sing, “When the Saints go marching in.” He did it excellent and had been practicing this song for a long time with eight hundred dolphins choir singing and clapping elegant with their fins, so it was a pleasure to watch and listen to, and the movements of their fins made a refreshing circulation in the water.

The liveliest of the mermaids, who were invited from the Bay of Biscay should be chaperones. They could easily make guests feel alive again, although there by now had gone legends in them.

On the menu were fish fillets, shrimps and oceans of caviar, and the wine card included water from underwater sources. It was fermented a bit, so there were bubbles in.

He looked forward to his new life in Shangri-La, but first would the visa be an issue, which meant he had to be approved. The papers were sent off, so now it was exciting if he got the visa, just like that, or whether there were some samples, he first had to endure.

He had heard of the seven plateaus, but did not know quite what it was about. He believed, however, he could handle any samples as his desire to reach his goal was so strong that it would give him wings, and he figured he could fly the plateaus through instead of having to creep and crawl along winding mountain trails.

But he hoped the best, and had to smile at the thought. In Shangri-La he also was finally free of his incessant trident, when there was a ban on anything that could be used as a weapon.

‘Ran,’ the goddess from Valhalla, had to take care of both the oceans policy and relevant problems then. He felt he had done his duty at that front, and in good conscience could enjoy his retirement in Shangri-La in peace and harmony, which he would radiate over the entire world. Like rings in water.

Fuel

Demanding waves rolls violently against the hunger’s desolate and rugged coastlines. But the gentle, white beam drowns the hunger, and its inanimate body washes up on the beach.

It was like a battle where hunger had fought to subdue the pain it caused. The battle was won quickly, and the enemy fled with shattered dreams.

Soon is the subject of the battle disappeared and forgotten. Peace is achieved without declarations and covenants while a blissful drowsiness spreads instead, and the eyelids are getting heavy.

Now be heard the larks incessant cheering while swallows gracefully and acrobatic hunt insects in flight. The buzzard scans a large area with its binoculars and with soaring expectations in the stomach.

The mouse discovered hardly how everything suddenly ended, as if by magic, while it was preparing dough for wheat bread.

Star Clear

“The little dwarf galaxy named Sergue 1 is 75,000 light years from our own Milky Way galaxy. It does not contain many stars – only a paltry 1,100, which is minimal compared to the 200 billion stars in our Milky Way.

The 1,100 stars do not emit much light together, and therefore the galaxy so far been too weak to be seen. So they probably have not inspired predictions.

The theories of galaxy development says today that large galaxies are formed of many smaller galaxies collided and has grown bigger.

Sooner or later they can be observed and inspire poetry and adventure, and the astrologers star maps gets bigger and bigger.”

“So you really believe, one’s destiny can be read in the stars, and maybe even in motion pictures?”

“Are you thinking of movie stars?”

“Yes, well, but with no future. The future’s not happened yet. It’s all about timing.”

“Then what about the three wise men from the East? They could see at the stars that Jesus would be born at Christmas. And even where.”

“Oh yes, but they were also astronauts.”

“No, no, they were astrologers.”

“That’s what I said, but it is perhaps only solemn days that can be predicted then?”

“Yes, it looks like this. For everyday you can try to do predictions in cards, indian palm leaves, coffee grounds or look in crystal balls if you can’t wait. Or watch a magic hour glass instead. Just seize the moment in its flight and pour it into a test tube. Add a splash of good time from time zones all over the world and put a gram of dried, powdered thyme in as well plus three grams early morning. Then only remains a pinch of sizzling sea salt a squeeze of overtime and a teaspoon tide.

Now it starts to bubble sizzle and steam so much that the stars and the Muses can get their share too, and the shape of the tube changes making the upper and lower halves expand to tripple size of their diameters whilst the middle gets a narrow waistline. A handful of fine, dried beach sand and time immediately starts. Every time time is ripe one of Newton’s laws will make time live.

Meanwhile, the stars sing the subtle songs about predictions that Kalliope has composed.”