rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Sometimes I get the feeling that I have wandered into an eccentric translation of a symbolist poem which has somehow displaced reality. I look about and see, for example, fragments of Mallarme.

The lively, lovely and virginal today
will its drunken wings tear for us with a blow
the lake hard and forgotten, haunted below
the frost by the clear glacier of flights not made?

So, I'm not quite sure what anything means if anything at all. The real trees and real ground are there in the dark waiting for morning to reveal them to me, and I will look at them and wonder what they are other than what they appear to be. There is just this feeling that there is something more to all of it. Behind that scattering of apple blossoms on grey pavements, behind the burgeoning green clouds of new foliage, behind the scent of flowers on the breeze, there is something I can't quite grasp.

I might open a door in the air and enter another world. I might never know what I have done. Are things ever what they seem?

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