i go elsewhere
to return, surely, in a space
adventure calls
for i am at heart a wanderer
and you shall see me again
on the moon’s second waning

Let me dream a little more before the night fades away. Morning, come not so quickly, for I have friends here I can see at no other time. Just a few minutes more where I wield a righteous sword, where I lift up from the boundaries of all earthborn souls, where I understand everything and know nothing. I know what waits for me when dawn shall peer through my window, and it is fair enough, I might say — there is much to be said for the solidities, and I would not that any of them be traded in for the ethereal dreamthings — but I ask not for an eternity, just a little while. My body is too heavy, just now, for this soul to be weighed down with it. Here, where time and space are blurred into one another, let me just say goodbye to those elfin eyes whose color my focus cannot hold, who once kissed me but never seems to remember. Let me pretend for just one moment more that it really happened, before I must forget the whole voyage through this night — into the shelves never to be scryed again.

I told you
That we could fly
’Cause we all have wings
But some of us don’t know why

– INXS

i am shook from the sky, fire from the stars

i am death that lives, the outline of a world

i am thought unthought, on the brink of myself

i am hurtling straight up, breaking the atmosphere

i am light in form, a shoulder of illumination

i am a vast, unclaimed forest at the edge of nowhere

i am wind that remembers, distance that knows

Franz Marc: Foxes

Click on the pic for a larger version.

write!
or the darkness becomes drunk on our despair
as shadows whisper in fleeting rhymes of primitive emotion
time gropes our faces for any change in moment…

now we are anywhere, existing in an anonymous future tragedy
nothing happens, and thus dies the world
softly to tread on the bodies of heroes, listening for nightlife
to have lost our secrets in encyclopedias of dust…

did we forget what we were told in our imaginary childhood?
even in lies we bobbed for words in oblivion
even in failure were scars that traced the blood of chance
did we die in the could that we did not?
a voiceless past to silently judge the potential no one tapped…

write! we the day in motions of what we reach for:
we may to thirst as light to find a medium for our discovery;
or the darkness becomes drunk on our despair…

To the Christian, love is the works of love. To say that love is a feeling or anything of the kind is really an un-Christian conception of love. That is the aesthetic definition and therefore fits the erotic and everything of that nature. But to the Christian, love is the works of love. Christ’s love was not an inner feeling, a full heart and what-not: it was the work of love which was his life.

For an addict, every time is his last time. He quits after every fix — once is too much, a thousand is never enough, as it is said. But one cannot break out of the vicious cycle unless one condition is met: that he wants to quit. Otherwise, the addict is kidding himself. It might take the event that is called “hitting rock bottom” for that desire to kick in, but one thing we learn of these situations is that there is a way out. It may show itself in odd ways, but within every contract for addiction is a loophole that can free you from indefinite servitude. Truly, it is merely the case of, “ask and it shall be given you,” for we may find, if we take a moment to look, that we will find that the cage we are in is not locked. That hope is everywhere, even when we are lost in nowhere…

Once you make up your mind never to stand waiting and hesitating when your conscience tells you what you ought to do, and you have got the key to every blessing that a sinner can reasonably hope for.

What does it mean to believe? It is not in like knowing something I drop will fall, but rather that one puts stake in the potential for a thing to be. What I believe in is real to me, and I will live in accordance to that reality. If reality itself, in the form of experience, proves a belief wrong, I will suffer the consequences. Why do we believe in anything, if we can be wrong about it? If the reality that we live by because of a belief does not make sense in the context of the world, one must question its sensibility. But ultimately, if it comes down to the question of whether life has value or not, I will believe that it does. In this way will I choose to live. If what follows makes sense of this belief, perhaps this, too, should be believed. Not to make foolish jumps in logic, but to have courage, too: if we are wrong, but make of this world a better place, the world will not remember that we were wrong.