Longmanox's Page in Other Life

Truth does not lie in our language. It lies elsewhere, wherever it is in mortal. Take premature mortality, which leaves awesome wordage. The dignity, the awe, gently forces them to abandon all the rest , Appall and dismay, but a crystallization of mortals. The Buddhist verbalization, "Namaste" or "NUM" is a merciful vintage, Easy to utter, deeply resonate from the Everest to the East, Consuming everything all through the fauna and flora of the eternal. So,  Don't twist the elderly's apparent withered voices by a hasty judge, Because they turned so with some bumps and detours at least, Just Like a howling winter tree, you read there a holy sign of revival. What is uttered never speaks . A problem of Wabi and Sabi in a language; What is experienced and abandoned as time goes on, That is the utmost significant matter for us all. ao

There are four languages we use... (1) A Bubbled Language. It comes out of your vanity blue mouth, Frivolous or not, it speaks and it consumes, Ephemera of squabbles, just like a fragile bubble. (2) A Trawled Language, Piled up with people's intention for communication, Particularly fixed and packed, it is transferred to listeners, From the database of our feelings and thoughts. (3) A Whirled Language, Abrupt thanks, blesses, curse, or damns go on air, "Beauty...""I love you.""Hideous!""Stop it!""Let's roll!" A rearer  of love and mercy, a breeder of people's strengths. (4) A Lulled Language It never be bubbled, neither be trawled nor whirled, No consumption, no information, and never been spoken, Like a lull in December sea, a speechless voice in speech, Or, A serenity of mind.   ao  

Rokko Mountains trail Down to Arima in November, 2014 Forests are good not only just for bathing, But also are they merciful, for passing through   Your difficult time. For the time being,   I Look up at these trees go up straight ahead.   Into the blue and white sky, spotless and cool. They just like evacuating gloomy bush beneath,   Like having no second thought, but only pursue. Is it a hallucination? Or is it a tweet?   Whispering birds twigged breathe into my heart, "You still walk down there, kiddo? C'mon out! Fly! Have fun up here!" Yes, I think I hear it sometimes,   Especially on a fine and chilly November day.     ao