I am Ryan Hill. I like to write about mundane things. The story entitled "The Room," was inspired from a dream I had about an unknown man that claims he is moving in with me, and how the space of a "room" functions in society. The poem "Walking Cloud and Deep Red Sky," is a poem I made while listening to Mono's album entitled "Walking Cloud and Deep Red Sky, Flag Fluttered and the Sun Shined." It is about something invisible that may or not be inside of us all. I am interested in dreams, plain everyday things, and solitude amongst noise. That is all.
the paraphrased virgin written in an enjamblement of words,
the then tensing thoughts, and the ripening veins, which flow like a river filled with dry walls,
the artifice of the wind, and the song of the invisibility cloak that floats above the stratosphere,
winds come soon, and winds vent the air, venting the air with a relaxed feel, and the veins can relax, and not expand, becaue pressure is not exerted into them,
pressure beyond barricades, pressure exceeding the psychosis of stability, rivers flow stagnant and stable thoughts lay low ,
lain low inside of the ground amongst bends in the river, the fork in the river suggests that the moss is actually pertaining to life, all life being just a vented molecule in the air,
quickly receding and nourishing the top soil, the moss recedes, the river water flows, and all horoscopes can be traced, and the evolution of continuity ensues, the mass of pangea forms together and across worlds and ponds, the ocean swells into a mass.
a mass that ensues the vitality of a living and breathing artifice, alive with its own breath, its own gender, a mass that exits all sexual realms, and exists solely on its own terms,
the great invisibilty of wind, the great mass, the great vibration of the footsteps onto curved land, onto the architecture before the paving of roads, and the fountain of earth that has swelled out of the mass.
the mass of solitude amongst the breath of the universe, the ventilation shafts of its chambers,
the lungs contracting and ventilating, that create a current of energy, monolithic and giving breaths to all that require breathing before it,
the lungs contract and the land thaws and warms itself, and the planet stands before as a breathing entity, a breathing mass that rivers flow from, and water spits, the clouds gather and spurt out when the weather is menstrating,
ripe and flowing from the moving giant and the ensuing of the cosmos, i wish to hear from the plains, and from the valleys a song all its own, a song that i cannot fathom and may never know the words to, like a rythmic cathartic cataclysm, the circling and movement of orbs will gather around where i stand, and a breath will be present before me, that i may feel that song, that breath, respirate onto me and make the earth out of me, that creates veins to flow, and rivers to wade in,
the song that is invisible, that is forever breathing, that can not be audible by any ear, whether specialized or non specialized, the attention to the song that is inside of everything and is the life force and the signal, the stench, the gas, the depth, and the energy,
the orignal seed and the original wind, non mechanical,
the wind that was its own seed, that gathered its own roots, that furnished its own ground,
that watered its own breath, that grew its own death,
the wind that was slowly born, slowly grew, and slowly died,
the wind that is fathers and mothers to billions of other winds that float and flow across currents of time and motions of energy and force.
the song, just because it is playing and it is always present, does not mean that it does not exists, but simply means it is the invisible particle which causes everything to revolve around us, for i know no song as beautiful as that, even though it is a song i cannot hear or wish to acknowledge it as something that does not exist, it is a song that still plays, orchestrated of its own accord and forever humming and causing the wind to move,
it is the song that makes everything beautiful, everything is hell on earth, the song plays against the backdrop of human hells, suffering and misery, and the song flows through the hell, but purifies it, it is the song that no one wishes to acknowledge, rather than hear the song, we choose to destroy the song and ask questions of why such a song could exist, but is the melody of all movement, the force inside of us and smoothly flowing along each thing living and dead,
put your ear to it, to that invisible song and tell me you cannot hear it, you may cannot hear it, but you certainly can feel that it's there, that it is the life blood and the hum, you may not know where to fashion your ear, whether it's below the ground, on top of the ground, in the vacuum of cities, in the crevices of the deepest ocean, swelling with the pond scum, mixing with the viruses of cancer, racing like clockwork with the wind, collecting with mold, you may not know where it is found, or where to look, but you will know it when you find it, you will know it when you hear it, for just because it is not there, it is the place that should be looked to first, the place you can no longer find, that you felt when you were coming out of the womb, before you took your first breath, before you joined with the breath of the wind, you may find it in the place least expected, it will grow and wither inside of you, but you will be attached and attuned to the song, because it will breathe inside of you at every moment, and you will perceive and live with this song as invisible, but it will always be present with you, and alive with you,
death is only the disengaged body that no longer functions, but the song is the rapture of the mind when it is detached from body and is allowed to float freely,
now with the search of the song, and the decaying of the body, the enlightenment of the mind is possible and you will forever be alive for reasons that you cannot fathom,
the only reason being that you found the song, and chose to believe in the song, and never let go of the song. that is...
the song is you.