As quietness seeps into the darker corners of the house,
silence reigns over, leaving one, who reclines, 
and gazes into the space
where the bedroom walls collide;

slipping, as it were, slowly, in
to a landscape of subterranean void, 
hushing her hunger away, in
to deep sleep. 

dream #388

Dreaming at the end of the world, about the end of the world. The view from the window constantly changes: normal, a little tilted, very much tilted. Just for passing time. Apocalypse.  

I crouched and felt something stirring inside, swirling round and round like wet clothes in a washing machine. Upwards, away.  


Woke up in a lighthouse.

'twas all but a mad trickery of a wizardSomeone’s gotta take him down. 

A battle between gods and humans, at night, on the quay. Running down the hill, rolling and tumbling along the way. There, in the middle of night, at a small tavern, on the road by the sea, I met people who claimed they have come from a far distant land. They claimed of knowing me better than I did. 

They claim to know me better than I do.

Woke up, once again, and found myself staring at the ceiling, 
thinking, ah, so home it is finally. 

It is admirable to venture out of one’s own comfort zone, but it is perhaps even more admirable not to intrude those that belong to other people. 

Nobody knows you.
You don’t know yourself.
And I, who am half in love with you,
What am I in love with?
My own imaginings?

D. H. Lawrence, from “The Evening Land,” Complete Poems of D. H. Lawrence (William Heinemann, 1957)

(Source: journalofanobody, via apoetreflects)

I know flies in milk. 
Specks against white. 
I know, I know it. 
I know a man by his clothes. 
Even I know that much. 
I know fair weather from foul. 
I know that. 
I know the apple by the tree. 
That I know. 
I know who labor and who loafs. 
I know all. 
All save myself. 
I know all things. 
I know pink cheeks from wan. 
I know death who devours all. 
I know everything. 
Everything but myself.

Poem: Ballade by François Villon (as recited in the film Himizu, directed by Shion Sono)

Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers,
And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,
The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees’ song,
Is this everything only a god’s
Groaning dream,
The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?

The distant line of the mountain,
That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,
Is this too only a convulsion,
Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,
Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling,
Never resting, never a blessed movement?

No! Leave me alone, you impure dream
Of the world in suffering!
The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,
The bird’s cry cradles you,
A breath of wind cools my forehead
With consolation.

Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!
Let it all be pain.
Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched —
But not this one sweet hour in the summer,
And not the fragrance of the red clover,
And not the deep tender pleasure
in my soul.

– Hermann Hesse, “Lying in Grass”

Two Sisters

There were two sisters walking down by a stream
Oh, the wind and rain
And one of them pushed the other one in
Crying, oh, the dreadful wind and rain. 

She pushed her sister in the river to drown
Oh, the wind and rain
And watched her as she floated down
Crying, oh, the dreadful wind and rain.

She floated till she came to the miller’s pond
Oh, the wind and rain
And his son cried, Father, there swims a swan
Crying, oh, the dreadful wind and rain.

Well, the miller laid her out on the banks to dry
Oh, the wind and rain
And the king’s own fiddler come a-passing by
Crying, oh, the dreadful wind and rain.

And he’s made fiddle pegs of her long finger bones
Oh, the wind and rain
For to tune the fiddle to the proper tones
Crying, oh, the dreadful wind and rain.