A great joy and happiness*

It was in the autumn of 1826. I was in a dull state of nerves, such as everybody is occasionally liable to; unsusceptible to enjoyment or pleasurable excitement; one of those moods when what is pleasure at other times, becomes insipid or indifferent; the state, I should think, in which converts to Methodism usually are, when smitten by their first “conviction of sin.” In this frame of mind it occurred to me to put the question directly to myself: “Suppose that all your objects in life were realized; that all the changes in institutions and opinions which you are looking forward to, could be completely effected at this very instant: would this be a great joy and happiness to you?” And an irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly answered, “No!” At this my heart sank within me: the whole foundation on which my life was constructed fell down. All my happiness was to have been found in the continual pursuit of this end. The end had ceased to charm, and how could there ever again be any interest in the means? I seemed to have nothing left to live for.

*The passage above comes from the Autobiography of John Stuart Mill.

Like fine sand*

A sublime passage from Agota Kristof‘s “The Third”.

We climb up to the cemetery and sit down on the yellow grass. Everything around us is decaying: the crosses, the trees, the bushes, the flowers. My brother scratches at the earth with his cane and white worms emerge.
My brother says, “Not everything is dead. Those are alive.”
The worms writhe. The sight of them gladdens me. I say, “As soon as you begin to think, you can no longer love life.”
My brother raises my chin with his cane. “Don’t think. Look- have you ever seen such a beautiful sky?”
I look up. The sun sets over the town.
I answer, “No, never. Nowhere else.”
We walk side by side to the castle. We come to a stop in the courtyard at the base of the battlements. My brother climbs the rampart and, when he reaches the top, starts to dance to a music that seems to come from underground. He dances, flailing his arms toward the sky, toward the stars, toward the full and rising moon. A thin silhouette in his long black coat, he advances along the ramparts, dancing, while I follow him from below, running and shouting: “No! Don’t! Stop it! Come down! You’ll fall!”
He comes to a halt above me. “Don’t you remember? We used to climb over the rooftops and we were never afraid of falling.”
“We were young, we didn’t feel the height. Come down!”
He laughs. “Don’t be scared. I won’t fall; I can fly. I fly over the town every night.”
He raises his arms, jumps, and crashes onto the courtyard stones at my feet. I lean over him, take his bald head, his wrinkled face into my hands, and I cry.
His face decomposes, his eyes disappear, and in my hands there is now nothing but an anonymous and disintegrating skull that flows through my fingers like fine sand.

Be like no one is

Live like no one lives.
Begin what no one begins.
Believe what no one believes.
Dream what no one dreams.
Dare what no one dares.
Think what no one thinks.
Feel what no one feels.
Love what no one loves.
Know what no one knows.
Take what no one takes.
Give what no one gives.
Answer what no one answers.
Choose what no one chooses.
Write what no one writes.
Read what no one reads.
Say what no one says.
Do what no one does.
Be like no one is.

I wanted to get up in the morning but I forgot that I was dead

I wanted to get up in the morning but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to drink a glass of wine but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to play violin on a noisy street but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to write poetry in the sand but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s Eve but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to read all the books of the world but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to examine the universe with my cerebral hemispheres but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to declare my love to a girl but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to feel the warmth of an embrace but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to give up my selfish passions but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to hide my shadow from the sun but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to absolve the sins of an innocent man but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to find a key to an unlocked door but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to make plans for tomorrow but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to hear the sound of wind but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to touch the teeth of a lion but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to smoke my pipe of peace but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to ask for an advice but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to answer with a question but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to believe in my doubts but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to laugh from the heart but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to open the Pandora’s box but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to see future in the past but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to come back as a resurrected Christ but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to plant a garden of roses in a desert land but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to look down into the abyss but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to leave without saying goodbye but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to give without expecting anything in return but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to choose right from wrong but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to live a happy life but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to use a tombstone for a pillow but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to think black and bitter thoughts but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to fantasize about being God but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to enjoy my remaining days but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to create a legacy to a cloud but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to hold destiny in my hands but I forgot that I was dead.
I wanted to forget what I have forgotten.
I wanted to forget that I was dead.

Edgar Allan Poe – Alone

If I were Edgar Allan Poe, I would have written the first eight verses of his poem “Alone”. No raven, no other poems or tales. Nothing more. These eight verses would be enough. I would have died content. 
But since I am not Edgar Allan Poe, I will publish these eight verses under my name. There is no greater compliment to a writer than plagiarization of his work. Bon appetit!

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were – I have not seen
As others saw – I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.

How far are you willing to go?

Welcome, my friend! Welcome! You have come to the right place. I have been waiting for you. Look what I got for you! Look, look above you! Do you see? I made the skies for you. I made the stars for your eyesight. I made the sun to keep you warm. I made the wind to comb your hair. I made the water to quench your thirst. I made the apples for your mouth. I made flowers for your nose and and roads for your legs. I made the trees so that you may cut them down. I made animals for you to cook them. I made this planet for you. For you alone! Do whatever you want. Do whatever you like. Do what you feel like doing. It is yours. It is all yours. Everything you see. Here and beyond. All is yours. Take it. Feel as in home.

Where is silence – my native tongue?

Where is the river that I crossed?
Where is the tree that I climbed?
Where is the mountain that I lifted?
Where are the clouds of my chidlhood days?
Where is my summer? Where is the heartbeat of my past?
Where is the wind that breezed past my face?
Where is the storm that rocked my boat?
Where are the fears I could not face?
Where are the tears I once shed?
Where is the roof that hung over my head?
Where are the raindrops that hit against the pavement?
Where are the snowflakes that I captured in my hand?
Where is the fly that danced on my palm?
Where is the thunder I once heard?
Where are the words I once spoke?
Where are the thoughts I once had?
Where are the eyes with which I looked at the world?
Where are the legs with which I traveled and ran before?
Where are the hands with which I shook yours?
Where is the air that I have squandered?
Where is the kiss I once received?
Where is the flower that faded away?
Where is the candle that burned out?
Where is the sunset that went beyond the horizon?
Where is the wave that reached the shore?
Where is the time that wasn’t on my clock?
Where is the child that became my father?
Where is the cry with which I came out of my mother’s womb?
Where is silence – my native tongue?

Who will build a snowman in a summer breeze?

Who will remember my dreams?
Who will dry my tears?
Who will drive away my fears?
Who will notice when I am not here?
Who will miss my breath?
Whose kiss will be my last?
Who will recall my name?
Who will be my friend?
Who will take off my clothes?
Who will carry my cross?
Who will prepare my last meal?
Who will bury my flesh?
Who will dig my tomb?
Who will lay flowers on my grave?
Who will embrace my shadow?
Who will follow my heart?
Who will hold my secrets?
Who will keep my photographs?
Who will sleep in my bed?
Who will read my books?
Who will walk in my shoes?
Who will finish what I have started?
Who will pronounce my words?
Who will write my sentences?
Who will register my thoughts?
Who will listen to my voice?
Who will roll my dice?
Who will build a snowman in a summer breeze?