I have not drawn a very rosy picture of the magician. I did not intend to do so. To the novice entering the life and promising himself ease, indolence, and wealth, I should say, Don't! -Alexander Herrmann
Who knows what true loneliness is-- not the conventional word, but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or illusion.
Here I am compelled to put forward an opinion which most people will not be happy about; but nevertheless, since it seems to me to be true, I will not hold it back.
It is a thin white shield that hides the electric current running through my young bones
A force of unchained strength pounds at my throat and at my limbs to enjoy the energy of the moment
I hurl myself at the world in sheer spectacle and bring down that single flash of boom to the ground sparking the earth with the first known flickering flame
Raising life into a thrilling existence and their admiration for my power will challenge them to uncover their own sustenance, feeding their fire I may leave them tired, but they become stronger.
Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey.
A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable.
Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger.
But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
But don't forget who you really are. And I'm not talking about your so-called real name. All names are made up by someone else, even the one your parents gave you. You know who you really are.
When you're alone at night, looking up at the stars, or maybe lying in your bed in total darkness, you know that nameless person inside you...Your muscles will toughen. So will your heart and soul. That's necessary for survival.
But don't lose touch with that person deep inside you, or else you won't really have survived at all.
We will never be the same again. But here’s a little secret for you — no one is ever the same thing again after anything.
You are never the same twice, and much of your unhappiness comes from trying to pretend that you are. Accept that you are different each day, and do so joyfully, recognizing it for the gift it is. Work within the desires and goals of the person you are currently, until you aren’t that person anymore, and everything changes once again.
It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless. And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,— By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
this battleground is deadly but you wear blood for one so gentle. and this was always your nature, to give light in the dark to shatter when needed they say that the biggest stars burn brightly and die quickly. achilles was the sun but baby, you were always supernova.
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nonscriptum) wrote2016-09-04 03:22 pm
{ words }
under western eyes | joseph conrad
not the conventional word, but the naked terror?
To the lonely themselves it wears a mask.
The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or illusion.
a history | herodotus
ὅμως δέ, τῇ γέ μοι φαίνεται εἶναι ἀληθές,οὐκ ἐπισχήσω.
Here I am compelled to put forward an opinion which most people will not be happy about;
but nevertheless, since it seems to me to be true, I will not hold it back.
the beauty of aries | jen satsune
that hides the electric current
running through my young bones
A force of unchained strength
pounds at my throat
and at my limbs
to enjoy the energy
of the moment
I hurl myself at the world
in sheer spectacle
and bring down that single
flash of boom to the ground
sparking the earth
with the first known flickering flame
Raising life into a thrilling existence
and their admiration for my power
will challenge them to uncover
their own sustenance, feeding their fire
I may leave them tired, but they become stronger.
in the presence of absence | mahmoud darwish
Acre is the smell of iodine and spices.
Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets.
Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice.
Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger.
Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons.
Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment.
Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit.
Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt.
Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey.
A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable.
Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger.
But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.
wild geese | mary oliver
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
holes | louis sachar
When you're alone at night, looking up at the stars, or maybe lying in your bed in total darkness, you know that nameless person inside you...Your muscles will toughen. So will your heart and soul. That's necessary for survival.
But don't lose touch with that person deep inside you, or else you won't really have survived at all.
discourses | epictetus
welcome to night vale
You are never the same twice, and much of your unhappiness comes from trying to pretend that you are. Accept that you are different each day, and do so joyfully, recognizing it for the gift it is. Work within the desires and goals of the person you are currently, until you aren’t that person anymore, and everything changes once again.
fridtjof nansen
a story told a million times | patricia camille antony
with our inheritance
we carry more bullets
in our genealogy than names.
strange meeting | wilfred owen
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
proverb
Home is not where you were born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease.
even stars die | l.s.
but you wear blood for one so gentle.
and this was always your nature,
to give light in the dark
to shatter when needed
they say that the biggest stars
burn brightly
and die quickly.
achilles was the sun
but baby, you were always supernova.