We seek to stay present, even as the ghosts attempt to draw us away.
Lost things. They claw through the membranes, attempting to summon our attention through an indecipherable mayday. Words tumble in helpless disorder. The dead speak. We have forgotten how to listen.
Without noticing, I slip into a light yet lingering malaise. Not a depression, more like a fascination for melancholia, which I turn in my hand as if it were a small planet, streaked in shadow, impossibly blue.
The trouble with dreaming is that we eventually wake up.
If I got lost along the way I had a compass that I had found embedded in a pile of wet leaves I was kicking my way through. The compass was old and rusted but it still worked, connecting the earth and stars. It told me where I was standing and which way was west but not where I was going and nothing of my worth.
The transformation of the heart is a wondrous thing, no matter how you land there.
It’s not so easy writing about nothing.
I was too curious about the future to look back.
We sometimes eclipse our own dreams with reality.
I was never going to become anything but myself, that i was of the clan of Peter Pan and we did not grow up.
Personally, I’m not much for symbolism. I never get it. Why can’t things be just as they are? I never thought to psychoanalyze Seymour Glass or sought to break down “Desolation Row.” I just wanted to get lost, become one with somewhere else, slip a wreath on a steeple top solely because I wished it.
Nothing is ever solved, Solving is an illusion. There are moments of spontaneous brightness, when the mind appears emancipated, but this is more epiphany.
I may not know what is in your mind, but I know how your mind works.
The Chelsea was like a doll’s house in the Twilight Zone, with a hundred rooms, each a small universe.
I wrote to give myself something to read.
I was there for these moments, but so young and preoccupied with my own thoughts that I hardly recognized them as moments.
He wrote me a note to say we would create art together and we would make it, with or without the rest of the world.
My great quandary was what coat to wear and which books to bring.
Shard by shard we are released from the tyranny of so-called time. A curtain of purple wisteria partially conceals the entrance to a familiar garden... In a wink, a lifetime, we pass through the infinite movements of a silent overture.
Closure is an illusion, the winking of the eye of a storm. Nothing is completely resolved in life, nothing is perfect. The important thing is to keep living because only by living can you see what happens next.” – on Murakami’s ‘Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage’ in The New York Times.