Saturday, 24 January 2009



I ran for life…from nothing. I felt such a great presence. How gruesome nothingness can be…yet, so enticing. I will try to continue to run from my terrors but I will not escape. Maybe one day I will walk into the night and never come back. Lost in the solitude of dark forever. Alone I am chilled to the bone. Yet to be accompanied seems a nightmare. The birds have only just woken up. They hurt my ears and send the chill of reality down my spine.

No wind, no breeze to disturb me. What once filled me with dread, now from dark turns to light. I ran from it in fear, yet now I am soothed by it’s presence. Time is a wonderful thing. The passing of night to day: dangerously kind.
I am free. The soft, sharp air chokes me. I am sick to the stomach. I am momentarily unbound of burden. Those asleep are not of concern to me. They are unaware of the horrifying beauty they waste. Now I know the reason for the lack of good literature, of good music, taste and general goodness in the world. We are all in slumber when it is to be conceived. Why would anyone sleep at such a time? Kept in reserve from such amazing silence and stillness. I no longer have respect for those other than the restless and somnambulists.


Blacklodge said...

gee knee us

Blacklodge said...

We had stayed up all night, my friends and I, under hanging mosque lamps with domes of filigreed brass, domes starred like our spirits, shining like them with the prisoned radiance of electric hearts. For hours we had trampled our atavistic ennui into rich oriental rugs, arguing up to the last confines of logic and blackening many reams of paper with our frenzied scribbling.

An immense pride was buoying us up, because we felt ourselves alone at that hour, alone, awake, and on our feet, like proud beacons or forward sentries against an army of hostile stars glaring down at us from their celestial encampments. Alone with stokers feeding the hellish fires of great ships, alone with the black spectres who grope in the red-hot bellies of locomotives launched on their crazy courses, alone with drunkards reeling like wounded birds along the city walls.

Suddenly we jumped, hearing the mighty noise of the huge double-decker trams that rumbled by outside, ablaze with colored lights, like villages on holiday suddenly struck and uprooted by the flooding Po and dragged over falls and through gourges to the sea.

Then the silence deepened. But, as we listened to the old canal muttering its feeble prayers and the creaking bones of sickly palaces above their damp green beards, under the windows we suddenly heard the famished roar of automobiles.

“Let’s go!” I said. “Friends, away! Let’s go! Mythology and the Mystic Ideal are defeated at last. We’re about to see the Centaur’s birth and, soon after, the first flight of Angels!... We must shake at the gates of life, test the bolts and hinges. Let’s go! Look there, on the earth, the very first dawn! There’s nothing to match the splendor of the sun’s red sword, slashing for the first time through our millennial gloom!”