“There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamored of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself… Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers, and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin, dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flamless tapers stand where we had left them, and besides them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and tehre steals over as a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.”—The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Sir Oscar Wilde
My God, this is breath taking. Many people had warned me that Wilde’s only novel was not even really worth the read, but I am happy that I gave it a shot if only for this paragraph. Such imagery. I’m awestruck… and to think that most of us can’t even be bothered to type out “you” in it’s entirety anymore. (via reasoninmadness)
“Realize your youth while you have it. […] Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.”—The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde (via laviennotes)
“If capital is privately controlled, then people are going to have to rent themselves in order to survive. Now, you can say, “they rent themselves freely, it’s a free contract”—but that’s a joke. If your choice is, “do what I tell you or starve,” that’s not a choice—it’s in fact what was commonly referred to as wage slavery in more civilized times, like the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, for example.”—
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead I played about the front gate, pulling flowers. You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse, You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. And we went on living in the village of Chokan: Two small people, without dislike or…
The endless night stretches its arms wide and long to the edges of twilight.
The air is soft and fulfilled with the scents of earth and mystery as above us all, the stars burn with subtle intensity and hellfire. Like the Ghosts of ancient Gods; kept alive by waning thoughts in their prisons strong as eggshells and high as romance.
The cool longing rides the breeze of time. It feels like freedom is at hand and this morning will never come. The day is locked in it’s grasp; held at bay by our obstinate refusal of it and the midnight jazz that crickets and owls make. Everything is cool and seductive in the way poets cannot name. It is infinite and pure, like the second before a new lover’s kiss and it is omnipresent in the way mysteries embrace.
Long live the endless night, long live the freedom of now.
May we find words to sell to poets, so that this time between worlds can be expressed.
No one’s life should be rooted in fear. We are born for wonder, for joy, for hope, for love, to marvel at the mystery of existence, to be ravished by the beauty of the world, to seek truth and meaning, to acquire wisdom, and by our treatment of others to brighten the corner where we are.