Tuesday, 18 August 2009

When you feel so amazing, you can do it!

My mind sings in illusion and celebrates delusion.
My mind falls over ropes that i myself have set.
My mind is like blossom, a spreading carpet, a floor.
My mind shuts itself regularly, then opens with suprising regularity.
My mind is a silouette, a poem, a tor.
My mind longs for a mind to share.
My mind regards science, as science regards religion, as religion regards science, as confusion, as joy.
My mind wears little clothing, and frolics in lakes on sunny days.
My mind is open, sometimes.
My mind is earth, but water secretly rules.
My mind is fire, unknowingly lit by air.
My mind is quiet in poems and distracted in films.
My mind blocks out realisation.
My mind is stubborn and stupid.
My mind is sunshine and curly hair.
My mind is chaos and confusion.
My mind is structured in a way that chaos helps to obliterate but will never understand.
My mind longs for solace, but is obsessed by sound.
My mind is a quilt made of feathers, unknowingly allergic to feathers.
My mind is a football newspaper or a betting shop on a sunny day.
My mind is an empty cinema.
My mind is quidditch and Gryffindor.
My mind is a Slytherin waterfall or a London bus.
My mind is pourous and uncomplicated.
My mind is mathematical shadow.
My mind knows nothing but silence, but always sits within a throng of people.
My mind loses itself regularly, each time taking longer to return to its original point.
My mind is a wanderer, a sailor, a cigarette stubbed out at a Wigan bustop.
My mind is learning slowly to sit within itself, content but secretly knows that when
it has reached this point it will still be unhappy within this contented self.
My mind is love.
My mind is death
My mind is not happiness; it does not know what this is, nore even care.

And when the children sing within the seashine.
And when the earth turns growing old.
And when the noise halts itself in crimson paint.
And when the hearts of all become kindrid sparks.
And when the flowers implode.
And when the careless ricochets of songs ripple and whisper,
across the voices of the old,
across the talking in our heads,
across the feet of slipping persons.

Then shall we understand the palace and the place.
Then shall we understand the melodic hymn of interplay.
Then shall we see, the love that each atom
has for me,
has for you,
has for the linked vibration that in our hands,
we all hold.

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