Round and round the sun we go; the moon goes round the earth. We do not die of death we die of vertigo.

Artist: pauldrobertson
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Round and round the sun we go; the moon goes round the earth. We do not die of death we die of vertigo.

I have been learning more and more and more. I think I understand the genesis of Christianity now. I have read a book on Greek mythology, on Celtic, on Norse. They are all tied in together, and these stories, all these stories and stories, interlaced and beautiful, they are the products of madness themselves. The most daring ideas, the most exquisite – these are outside the workings of a mind that fits the requisite barriers of societal acceptance – more much more than that – they are outside the limits of working within a mind and not causing it pain. Nietzsche’s abortive saints, one and all – all of US that is what we are.

I have started drinking green tea all the time. I swear it gives me some kind of little rush. I have even tried to learn more about eastern philosophy… got some INSENCE for fuck’s sake, but the philosophy is, of course, just as dense and vast as its western counterpart, and it is slippery to me. Though I have already learned that so much of what took the west till the 18th or 19thc was already understood by the 5thc BC in India. There are holes there too where the west went forward and the east never considered. It is frightening in sheer scale. Vast. I understand that I will never know it as deeply as I would wish to.
I remember when some confused DICK decided I was colourblind when I was about 8 years old. I was devastated – I could never be a pilot or an electrician. I had no desire to be a pilot or an electrician until then. But I feel the same kind of loss every time I realise that I can never know as deeply as I wish to the twists and surges of brilliant humanity that move me.
There is not enough time.
Ah, time… everything is fucking RELATIVE. How fast are we going? Well… to us, we are still. Everything else moves, each of us anchors the universe because THAT IS WHERE WE SEE FROM.

It doesn’t matter if we are mad and we see monsters and hear voices – they are as real as the rest of the world, they ARE because for each of us the things that define our world are what our senses tell us, there can be no other truth, EVER, this is it, the world that we see, distorted by our minds and full of panic and magic and fear – this is no less real than the first vision of a perfect newborn child or the last of an ancient man’s eyes before they close! If our memories differ from what our senses tell us, if other people tell us that things vary from our fevered and mad perceptions, what does it matter? How can we trust these things more than what our OWN SENSES TELL US?
The slide into hell, tell me again why I should trust the words of someone who does not feel the things that I feel, why I should believe that my hell is less real than their
FUCKING
OFFICE
When my heart swells and bursts with conviction stronger than the deepest oath, stronger than the faiths for which people die and kill, I am supposed to believe someone outside my mind with words as uncertain as the TIE that he wears, that I do not know or love, that MY world is wrong, and that THIERS is the real, the pure, the right and absolute.
Or the paradise of high euphoria, give it up! Go back to pain return to ugliness and sorrow and grey, spurn bliss and the conviction of genius, blooming pleasure in our veins, believe it is a lie?
It is such a GIFT. Our own bodies slight of hand against age and pain and omnipresent atrophy, a chattering blissful and horny twist of relief, give it up give it all up for harsh light and slow ugly time.

“If we had a keen sense of all that is ordinary in human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel’s heartbeat, and we should die of that roar that is the other side of silence.”

“Do not go gently into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

“Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies, that apprehend far more than cool reason ever comprehends. One sees more devils than vast hells can hold. That is the madman. The lover, all is frantic, sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt. The poet’s eye in a frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, and as imagination bodies forth, all is made compact. Gives to airy nothing a local habitation. And a name.”

Breathe the sweet breath of madness tie your mind to itself in switches and arcs of pleasure and lights and pain, in stutters and twitches and flights and bursts of colour in your vision.
We are all so bound to lucidity. To rationalism.

Ah hell. And to it we eventually return.

I wish I was my cat.

“I am a brother to dragons
I am a companion to owls.
My skin is black upon me.
And my bones are burned with heat.”

Round and round the sun we go; the moon goes round the earth. We do not die of death we die of vertigo. belongs to the following groups:

1 on 1: The Fine Art of Portraiture , All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical, Pencil Drawing (2 per 24 hrs), Practising the Dark Arts, Self as Other, Short stories - Spherical Scriptings and Spiritual Art