| Come, come whoever you are, wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving, come. Come even though you have broken your vow a thousand times. Come, and come yet again, Ours is not a caravan of despair.
| whispers: 49 echoes of the wind or whisper to me  |
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The impossibility of our saying the truth, even when we feel it, makes us speak as poets.
-Ranciere
| whispers: whisper to me  |
| | Tags: | love | | Security: | | | Time: | 11:17 pm |
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"Just killing the blues, I've been killing the blues..."
hi journal, it's been a while. i've missed you. | whispers: whisper to me  |
| | Tags: | poetry | | Security: | | | Time: | 10:07 pm |
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Once again, I'm trying this poetry thing. Hello poetry, how do you do. Here's my name, oh but I can't say my name. Here's my thoughts, and terribly sorry, I forgot I can't say my thoughts.
So. This is me. The things I want to say I can't. All day long I hide behind half-thoughts and secrets. Reading The Art of War. Always on my tippy toes. Afraid to lose my voice. That real voice inside that body afraid to go out to the kitchen.
Thunder and grey skies. Sweltering heat. I pretend I'm in some magic novel. On the edge of the balcony, ready to fly out. Waiting for the sign. With each rumble of thunder I wait.
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| It doesn't hit the way you think, like sledgehammers in the dark. It creeps up, maybe or maybe not. Maybe it's that feeling when I see this photo, taken by this guy I don't even know, of some night sky crowned with stars and think how I could once recognize the constellations, some feeling almost there, a strange sense of loss for something that could have been dreamt up. Shiverings of me, this madwomen, feeling out of sorts that four months ago she could have seen that same night sky and dismissed it for all its ordinariness, for all its closeness and not this faraway-ness, this curious sensation of distance and sorrow. | whispers: whisper to me  |
| When I was young, younger than before I never saw the truth hanging from the door And now I'm older see it face to face And now I'm older gotta get up clean the place.
And I was green, greener than the hill Where flowers grew and the sun shone still Now I'm darker than the deepest sea Just hand me down, give me a place to be.
Entire album always makes me sad. | whispers: whisper to me  |
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Critics say that America is a lie because its reality falls so far short of its ideals. They are wrong. America is not a lie; it is a disappointment. But it can be a disappointment only because it is also a hope.
-Samuel P. Huntington |
| whispers: whisper to me  |
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