In Touch With Myself

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.

Whoever you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else—I alone would expect to be your God, sole and exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have to be abandon’d;
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way

Language has nothing to do with rational thought. I think that’s why I get so horribly furious and disturbed with rational thought. Language is the the opposite of the way a machine works. Language is poetry, maybe? But not all language is poetry. Nor is all poetry language. By the way, you talk language but that’s beside the point. Or rather, you understand it, you don’t always talk it. It is hard to define. Well, nevermind. I think language is beautiful. I even think insanity is beautiful (surely the root of language), except that it is painful. Language is verbalizing the non verbal. That’s perhaps what makes it so complicated. Holding hands is better than saying “I love you”.

I want the part of you that you refuse to give.

It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.

Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.