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Archive for September, 2013



When someone dies, who is it who leaves? From our perspective it may be the other. But from their perspective, perhaps it is us.


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Time seems to mark nothing substantial, which is absurd to contemplate.
Because a sum of nothings is nothing.
So if it doesn’t exist, nothing is possible.
But if time existed, was something, it could be divided, and would be infinitely divisible.
Because anything can be divided, given enough time.
So if time existed, it would be infinite.
But if time were infinite, everything would be impossible, and nothing would exist, which is also absurd.

If you think about it, time really is the strangest phenomenon.
Even if you don’t.

Which makes smart people just people, who use words in ways no one else has.


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bay sky 1 copy - Copy (2)


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Different lives, different words. Is your life somehow right, and mine wrong?


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I think Sartre is correct: when we ask for advice, we’ve already made a decision. And in the most difficult ones, we are alone.



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In time you can live more
of the poetry that surprised you.


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a poem for me is frequently a response to a strong emotion, often involving grief. it is important for me to process the emotion, to fully express it in the poem, without regard to irrelevant factors or consequences. to fully validate the experience. to be able to learn from it.


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You’re
a very still creature; and
I want this to write itself
already.

Events are not just lived
as they arise,

one
thought can stand in our way
like repetition.

And safety is an oddity that I
don’t pretend to know myself.

Don’t fact check your life.
Where is the perfect you.
Where are you broken.

In some other part of your mind that was a friend?
Exception to the rule noticed my hiding place.

What young joy are you living through that I never had? What
was stolen from me.

Let me see with love the thief once again.
One might hate these poetries yet

the point is to live not die,
and come home hand in hand.
You asked for an undeniable protection, and that
no one could refuse.

Who is the unknown?
How does she live like that?

Do I know the in between.
Do I detest the hidden.
Am I worthy

of the moment my love gave me back to myself.



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What kind of love did you always want since your youth.
What words would you ever give up for a dream.
I would cut off my own head if I could
and save the world some misery.

As a story you buried in your back yard
birds flew over it without suffering,
none of what most enchanted you left behind.
Like your own skin under the pear tree sunk in the mud.

These are the things I’ve previously left unspoken.
They taught me a simple story of life.
The first cannot proceed without the last.

What do you want to not want to want?

Sometimes I wake up angry and wonder
if I can no longer live with myself.
With the nature of the way things are.

If you are unhappy about your life just
let it be a mystery. Make something up.

Do I have to draw you a map?



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When Beethoven wrote revolutionary pieces like the Op. 13 sonata, he certainly was misunderstood by his contemporaries. Was he trying to be misunderstood? He clearly refused the pieties of his generation, and corrupted the youth of his community. Was that, his intent?


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