You exhaust me.
Thoughts are your play-dough
That you knead and churn-
Over and over, the same rubbish thoughts.
Where is the Imagination?
You exhaust me
Not because you think, but because
As you think your limbs move
Up and down, side to side,
And I have to follow you.
Correction: I follow you.
I do not have to follow you.
What if I stopped following you right this minute?
Would you lurk around in darkness,
Or become one with light?
[ I hate to explain poetry, but was tempted to write up a little bit about this particular one. It is one's shadow (or if you like, more figuratively, the mirror of one's conscience) talking to them. I wrote this not because I felt tired of myself, but because I was imagining what it must be like if one's shadow really had a soul and was tired of being around the person, following them. It also worked out well to interpret the shadow as one's conscience. ]
4 comments:
Very interesting! How much more complex would we get if our conscience had a soul of its own... a complex recursion :)
Sumu, i saw this poem in Rousseau's work:
"Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they passed
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.
"His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose,
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.
But he was frenzied,-wherefore, who may know?
Since cause might be which skill could never find;
But he was frenzied by disease or woe
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show."
Sumu, saw this in one of Rousseau's works:
"Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they passed
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.
"His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose,
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.
But he was frenzied,-wherefore, who may know?
Since cause might be which skill could never find;
But he was frenzied by disease or woe
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show."
thanks for sharing that. Nice poem. Made me look Rosseau up, seems like a very interesting person. gotto read him...
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