they’d never understand what I meant. It’s a bad question. It can mean so much that it really means nothing. So I ask them if they believe in God. And if they say they do—then, I know they don’t believe in life.
Because, you see, God—whatever anyone chooses to call God—is one’s highest conception of the highest possible. And whoever places his highest conception above his own possibility thinks very little of himself and his life.
It’s a rare gift, you know, to feel reverence for your own life and to want the best, the greatest, the highest possible, here, now, for your very own. To imagine a heaven and then not to dream of it, but to demand it.
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose
and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
the namer, and represents beauty. He is a sovereign, and stands on the centre. For the world is not painted, or adorned, but from the beginning beautiful; and God has not made some beautiful things, but Beauty is the creator of the universe.
I hope to God he has the foresight to let a dermatologist sit in on consultation. A hand specialist. I have scars on my hands from touching certain people. Once, in the park, when Franny was still in the carriage, I put my hand on the downy pate of her head and left it there too long.
Certain heads, certain colors and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me.
(From Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters, J.D Salinger)
void of activity, pressures and stress. I find it unnerving, almost terrifying, to have an empty schedule. All latent yearning for mindless activity rises to the surface, an eruption of kinetic dreams. When my body is forced to keep still, my mind works overtime, often resulting in obsessive thought which, more than not, leads to some form of self-destructive behavior. I am not my best self on weekends.
one can fit all descriptions, likes, dislikes, fears, failures and desires into blank space. Some things are not meant to be packaged just so. I am, indeed, one of such things. Though it is unlikely that anyone, save a wandering soul, will touch upon this mess of words, I will attempt to paint, if you will, a relatively compact portrait of myself:
I am just at the cusp of twenty-five. The tender skin just below my eye sockets have managed to maintain elasticity; and so I count my blessings.
My world is a one bedroom apartment in which two full-sized humans, one pint-sized human, two dogs and a cat coexist. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I crave an outlet of creative proportions. I want to share literature (my own, contemporary and classic alike). There is something sacred about the anonymity of the internet; these phantom connections, merely apparitions, yet how profound!