The last post, in all its massive volume and bad grammar was the five-hundredth one on my blog. Neat huh? This is a good way to start the next five-hundred, lest death take me first, or the internet dies.
"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. "
Memories, both painful and sweet, sting with varying force. The force is particular to the memory, not the sweetness or bitterness of it. The periods of my past lives are things of joy forever, whose loveliness increases, unable to be allowed to pass into nothingness--at least not yet. Old memories sometimes act like quiet little cottages where I am sometimes found looking over the frozen and forever solid past with ever new and old eyes. I can feel the opening of my chest and the spirits flying in and out like Rumi tells me to do. I can remember how my body felt through different points of it. The firmness of connection in my chest and the hot liquid of my heart dripping sickeningly down into my acidic stomach. If humanity can remember that the present, with all of it's own spikes and valleys, will too pass into a solid state of eternity by becoming a part of the frozen past, then perhaps we can already begin enjoying the quiet sweetness of a passing life, instead of appreciating it only when it is gone.
"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. "
- John Keats
Memories, both painful and sweet, sting with varying force. The force is particular to the memory, not the sweetness or bitterness of it. The periods of my past lives are things of joy forever, whose loveliness increases, unable to be allowed to pass into nothingness--at least not yet. Old memories sometimes act like quiet little cottages where I am sometimes found looking over the frozen and forever solid past with ever new and old eyes. I can feel the opening of my chest and the spirits flying in and out like Rumi tells me to do. I can remember how my body felt through different points of it. The firmness of connection in my chest and the hot liquid of my heart dripping sickeningly down into my acidic stomach. If humanity can remember that the present, with all of it's own spikes and valleys, will too pass into a solid state of eternity by becoming a part of the frozen past, then perhaps we can already begin enjoying the quiet sweetness of a passing life, instead of appreciating it only when it is gone.
I wrote an aphorism about this in my Madness six masks ago when I was still a saint.
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