But, for now, we are young
I was having a crisis for the past few days between my ideal reality and the shoddy world that I inhabit. I would love to latch onto something glorious and noble with all of me, but I don't know how to. So I wrote this in class:
Confessions: I was a fillandering brute. I was a shadow cast on a wall. I was cast out from heated rooms and darling smiles and planted in a January night. I only noticed my bluinderous ways when I asked myself what starshine ideals shone above my station. What did I mimic? I could not help but represent even the hardships of the piteous dirt that swated my legs with every upheaving gust. Certainly this sympathy for the mindless folly of dust, whose representation and exhibition I clasped to my swaying body, was not the stuff of starshine, did not feather the wings of angels or approximate the diaphanous timbre of their chorus. How could I forge from my nighttime dance of corruption an epic to guide the rest of the baffled world? How could I guide myself with windblown madness, cut off from any astronomical direction?
How do the words come down to us from above? How can they take over my mute action? And do I deserve this? There is a dumb unity to the world, laid out in patterns and evident utility, a little area cleared where a playground may be built, a flower bed clueless in its sublimity - the sublime as clueless. The real part of your life does not cry out but reclines somewhere within the desires that lash the surface of your being, like torrential rains over a sea, the top is cast about, cries out in its upheaval, but the bottom barely stirs, the bottom will suffocate you in its silence and depth. And it will repeat, go on without you.
still...
"I would rather live on earth as a serf
to a landless man, whose livelihood was small,
than rule over all the perished dead." ....sometimes.
Confessions: I was a fillandering brute. I was a shadow cast on a wall. I was cast out from heated rooms and darling smiles and planted in a January night. I only noticed my bluinderous ways when I asked myself what starshine ideals shone above my station. What did I mimic? I could not help but represent even the hardships of the piteous dirt that swated my legs with every upheaving gust. Certainly this sympathy for the mindless folly of dust, whose representation and exhibition I clasped to my swaying body, was not the stuff of starshine, did not feather the wings of angels or approximate the diaphanous timbre of their chorus. How could I forge from my nighttime dance of corruption an epic to guide the rest of the baffled world? How could I guide myself with windblown madness, cut off from any astronomical direction?
How do the words come down to us from above? How can they take over my mute action? And do I deserve this? There is a dumb unity to the world, laid out in patterns and evident utility, a little area cleared where a playground may be built, a flower bed clueless in its sublimity - the sublime as clueless. The real part of your life does not cry out but reclines somewhere within the desires that lash the surface of your being, like torrential rains over a sea, the top is cast about, cries out in its upheaval, but the bottom barely stirs, the bottom will suffocate you in its silence and depth. And it will repeat, go on without you.
still...
"I would rather live on earth as a serf
to a landless man, whose livelihood was small,
than rule over all the perished dead." ....sometimes.