Encompassed by night we departed from all the cities
and memory went with us.
We were thirsty,
memory has quenched our thirst,
we were hungry
and memory fed us the meat of Job,
and when we were weary
memory spread for us
a bed of thistles.
-tr. Matthew Mead
F. Scott Fitzgerald (via anarchistpizzasociety)
And so it happens that on some days I wake up and do not know how I feel
I wonder about the human condition, and god’s absence
And what to have for breakfast, and whether our will is ever really brought to fruition
All while having no grasp on my hearts subtle motion.
I think of myself as some tragic caricature – an intelligence without heart: Eliot’s scarecrow of malicious disaffect, a twisted contortion of Dorothy’s metal vagabond.
The freedom of mind is bewitching, and yet I feel as though,
In these scattered and indefatigable moments,
I am bearing witness to the prelude to
The birth of unlife, the riddle of Manson and Jones revealed.
But today I know how I feel.
Like Nietzsche being crucified in front of leering slaves with swastika smiles
Covered head-to-toe in the forceful grey of dead imaginations
Yelling “Tot sind alle Götter: nun wollen wir, dass der Übermensch lebe!” ,
As the blunt spear of misinterpretation is plunged into his breast by his own sister.
Like a 21st century youth in revolt wearing a brand shirt and designer jeans
Covered head-to-toe in the elaborate arrogance of plagiarised ideas
Smoke in one hand, wrist cocked back, holding a sign that demands an end
To the very states of affairs that gave him his stolen thoughts and flashy attire.
Like a mourning soldier’s widow, all smudged makeup and trembling smiles
Covered head-to-toe in a blackness as dark as the justification of her husband’s death
Being told that she is ‘a true patriot’ by a man named Justice
With not a hint of self-reflective irony in his proud expression.
Like waking up feeling nothing and fearing the birth of malice
Covered head-to-toe in an uncertainty deeper than words could capture
Proceeding to desperately scribble out ideas without form
To capture feeling without meaning and hope without shape
Like the subtle edge of my every spoken word finding its mark in your heart of hearts
And leaving you scarred: brother, sister, lover, friend.
Or at least, so I hope.
For as our evenings dawn draws near I fear that we are losing each other
In the scattered muddled lines of 7 billion confused consciousness
Drowning in an infinite sea of desperate ideas.
To manifest your dreams before you manifest your fears.
To navigate beyond the treachery of self despair.
To find the balance between all you sense and all you see.
To find the patience and the strength it takes to let it be.
To stand amongst the crowd and have the strength to hold your own.
To throw away the pen and pad and simply be the poem.
To rise above hatred to love through seeming contradiction.
To seldom take a side and learn to compliment the friction.
To bring about the change within that we can’t live without.
To shift and re-arrange ideals and learn to deal with doubt.
To voice the victory and unlearn ways of self-defeat.
To learn the value of, “yo, fuck the words just ride the beat”.
To leave the comfort zones of all you know to all you feel.
To step beyond the void and realize the unknown is real.
To re-imagine every obstacle as just means of honing craft and learn to laugh at failures funny dream.
Saul Williams, excerpt from “Raised To Be Lowered”.
I should be driven desperate if I knew who I was. I meet somebody who says “you’re this or that”, and I feel like I don’t want to be anything.
Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters (via terramantra)