You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.
The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.
The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...
-Walt Whitman
23.1.14
when the stars go blue
WHEN YOU LISTEN TO A SONG and it stirs up a memory - a fleeting image at first, and then slowly, like gathering dust, takes on a perceivable form, almost solid really. And then it builds up from within your consciousness then down to your chest, swelling up compressing your heart pushing the walls of your lungs.
And then you exhale, left in wonder, of the feeling you just felt, beautiful and abstract, that now has become just a part of everything else sucked in time. Yes. That is how I would describe nostalgia.
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2 comments:
I do miss your writings. I started writing and followed yours many years ago and still hoping that you will write more. The descriptions are just very clever.
Thank you, Jonathan. I try to write once in a while. Inspiration is just hard to come by when time becomes really slutty. :)
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