I fell for you the way rain falls on pavement
Delicately at first, afraid to penetrate beneath the surface,
Then with reckless abandon, desperately plummeting,
Though sinking into you would mean violently crashing
Across your hardened exterior to painfully linger like a stain
In the hopes of one day slipping through your cracks,
Nurturing hidden, neglected seeds so that there may be
A beautiful garden where there is now an abandoned lot.
Are the bars
In the cells
Us from the
We are souls
Is limited by
Created in a
Jail we’ve been
Which we call
“The way it is.”
I want to erase
Until we bleed
Into each other
Filling in the
Of a clean sheet
Of its original
Emptiness is left
I am a waterfall
I am a river
Carving my course
To vast open seas.
I am a brook
To still, calm reserves.
I choose to employ
In my endless journey
Each sharp edge
Is softened by
My loving passing
As I conjure the
Momentum to carry on.
Whatever winding path
I spontaneously discover
Brings me to the same, sacred place.
I always return to myself.
I always return home.
When authors write novels, they usually act as if they were God and could completely survey and comprehend some person’s history and present it as if God were telling it to Himself, totally unveiled, in its essence at all points. I can’t, any more than those authors can. But my story is more important to me than any author’s is to him, because it’s my own; it’s the story of a human being — not invented, potential, ideal, or otherwise nonexistent person, but a real, unique, living one. To be sure, people today had less of an idea than ever before what a really living person is; in fact, human beings, each one of whom is a priceless, unique experiment of nature, are being shot to death in carloads. If we weren’t something more than unique individuals, if we could really be totally dispatched from the world by a bullet, it would no longer make sense to tell stories. But each person is not only himself, he is also the unique, very special point, important and noteworthy in every instance, where the phenomena of the world meet, once only and never again in the same way. And so every persons story is important, eternal, divine; and so every person, to the extent that he loved and fulfills nature’s will, is wondrous and deserving of full attention. In each of us spirit has become form, in each of us the created being suffers, in each of us a redeemer is crucified.
Not many people nowadays know what man is. Many feel it and therefore die more easily, just as I shall die more easily when I have finished writing this story.
I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seeking the stars or in books; I’m beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of only and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.
Every person’s life is a journey toward himself, the attempt at a journey, the intimation of a path. No person has ever been completely himself, but each one strives to become so, some gropingly, others more lucidly, according to his abilities. Each one carries with him to the end traces of his birth, the slime and eggshells of a primordial world. Many a one never becomes a human being, but remains a frog, lizard, or ant. But each one is a gamble of Nature, a hopeful attempt at forming a human being. We all have a common origin, the Mothers, we all come out of the same abyss; but each of us, a trial throw of the dice from the depths, strives toward his own goal. We can understand one another, but each of us can only interpret himself.
We are each of us trees
Twisting up through the earth
To be kissed by the rays of the sun
We think that it is by
This reaching and stretching
That we grow towards the heavens
But those who solely reach and stretch
Can be blown over by the gentlest winds
And swept away by the weakest currents
The few who turn inwards
Cultivating their roots with life giving waters
Anchor themselves in the darkest depths
Though occasionally shaken
Not even the grandest of storms
Can tear these asunder
Send your troubles out to sea
Where they can be cleansed by the thrashing waves,
Smoothed by the gentle currents,
And returned to you with the tide.
Watch as they are transformed;
Sharp jagged edges into smooth rounded corners,
Hard cracks into soft curves,
And deep pits into shallow grooves.
Cherish them as treasures
As they now decorate the shorelines of your life,
Shimmering in the sun
Instead of sinking in the shadows.
Ever finished a book? I mean, truly finished one? Cover to cover. Closed the spine with that slow awakening that comes with reentering consciousness?
You take a breath, deep from the bottom of your lungs and sit there. Book in both hands, your head staring down at the cover, back page or wall in front of you.
You’re grateful, thoughtful, pensive. You feel like a piece of you was just gained and lost. You’ve just experienced something deep, something intimate… Full from the experience, the connection, the richness that comes after digesting another soul.
It’s no surprise that readers are better people. Having experienced someone else’s life through abstract eyes, they’ve learned what it’s like to leave their bodies and see the world through other frames of reference. They have access to hundreds of souls, and the collected wisdom of all them.
Beautiful read on why readers are, “scientifically,” the best people to date.
Perhaps Kafka’s timeless contention that books are "the axe for the frozen sea inside us" applies equally to the frozen sea between us.