“The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence. ”
but i don’t want you calling me
i don’t want you chasing me
i don’t want you missing me
i just want you here
cut off the phone lines, burn the post to the ground
i’ll send a grenade flying to that bridge
i’ll watch it crumble into pieces in the river with full confidence assuming you’d still honk at my door later or tomorrow
i am here, you do not need to keep up
i keep still, i’m waiting
but you never ever come
what appears to be vague and shapeless to the mind can move the heart in so many ways
it’s warm, soothing; much like a salty breeze that gropes you in on the shoreline
i let the lightness and warmth envelope my soul without it touching an inch of my logic
but it doesn’t have a name
it doesn’t seem to be real
nothing is tangible, however…
what does it matter if no one understands
i don’t either…
i was prancing about the sidewalk, taking snapshots of my shoes, making fun of PUV drivers as they rush along
Aubrey was the perfect girl to be with at the moment, she was totally oblivious to the world
we had cupcakes, three of them
one blue, one red and one was a sickly yellow
the weather was fine that day, i never noticed the gloomy cluster of clouds that hovered in the sky
it was a perfect day for everything
a smoke, a beer, a steak…
there was stillness all around me, it was beautiful now that i remember it
something came by like a rushing train, however
all of a sudden, truth hit me, it was a blatant blow to the head
like i said, it was the perfect day for everything
my hero chose it to exhale his last breath
You smell of absence
Alone you gave birth to yourself
Alone you gave birth to yourself
Vasko Popa, from “Heaven’s Ring” (translated by Charles Simic)
(Source: awritersruminations, via booklover)
