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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476442" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Feeling In The Heart That Overwhelms Thought</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A feeling in the heart that overwhelms thought. <br>Can the stars feel our pain like distant neurons? <br>Thorns blunted in moments like this, the hands of time <br>almost folded in prayer like the wings of a nightbird<br>whose lament has seized the air with something <br>so sad and true, everything that lives, <br>and everything lives, can sense it, <br>even though they can't think it or say it. <br>The vigil of sentience is arrested by the same <br>mysterious note of suffering that binds us to everything <br>in the courage that it takes to live it beautifully<br>by burning with insight to flower compassionately <br>in the midst of the heretical flames of our own damnation. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The presence, the friend, the blaze, an affable familiar, <br>enlightenment or an expedient delusion of an hour or two <br>when pain isn't the personal possession of anyone, <br>and a vision emerges that supersedes empathy <br>when even the demons cry alone for things they can't explain, <br>too deep for tears, though they're never far away, <br>when a kind of peace overtakes you from behind <br>and there's heart break in the clearing of the clouds<br>and you know you haven't lived humbly enough <br>to see it without fear, but you open your eyes <br>and look anyway and they're seared <br>by the dragon of awareness looking back at you <br>as if you could feel every mystic detail of hurt in the world, <br>time past, present, and to come, all at once, <br>a bolt of black lightning splitting your bones open <br>like an oak to expose your heartwood to the stars<br>as if the scars just fell off a chronic wound that never heals. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there's no injunction behind this devastating insight <br>into the pervasive depths of the grief that must be endured <br>as one of the terrible conditions of life if for no other reason, <br>and reason's always a small guess, than to live to be aware of it<br>and try to love one another better than we're capable of. <br>To fail at what we're trying to attain from the unattainable<br>because there's no love in the acquisition of anything <br>we can get our hands on in a world of forms and dream figures <br>that are always passing away from us like roads <br>that leave us walking alone with the moon <br>for our only companion, wondering where the others went<br>who used to chatter in the trees like homing birds<br>about whether you were a threat or just another lost soul <br>going anywhere in the defeated hope that he might be found <br>even though what he seeks is doing the looking<br>and there's nothing retroactive about our eyes <br>that can creatively repeat the immediacy of our seeing.<br>Eternity wounds the children of time like wild flowers <br>at the end of autumn, and the harvest dance is ruined by death. <br>And whenever and whatever we celebrate, it's as much <br>of a protest singing through our tears like light <br>in the false dawns of our candles and chandeliers, <br>as it is a party. If we act happy, maybe that's half the proof <br>we were born to be, even alone at night in the woods, <br>saturated with decay, trying to convince ourselves <br>all passage is the prelude to the renewal of a recurrent dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And may it be so. May it be imaginal and necessary. <br>May delusion always be the cornerstone of enlightenment<br>and the impact of meteors always splash us in diamonds <br>like the tears of the fires of life that don't wash off.<br>May what's already been given to you always outweigh <br>the reward of what you think you laboured for<br>so your gifts perpetually exceed the limits of your just deserts, <br>and the praeternatural walk beside you like the dark sage <br>of everything that remains to be known but can't be <br>until you learn there's nothing to master in the stillness. <br>In the silence. In the essential grammar of the abyss<br>which is us trying to express ourselves like mediums <br>of our own minds with these nouns of sorrow, verbs of bliss<br>of the whippoorwill, the hermit thrush, the barred owl, <br>the starling and the mockingbird singing without meaning <br>anything to anyone but themselves like an artist or a child. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The heart of the petty is always a compass needle <br>Zen-duelling over the proper direction of prayer<br>as if it were swinging a sword over your head, <br>but among those born demonically blessed enough <br>to be self-defeatingly great in the name <br>of a few noble absurdities they'd prefer to live than explain, <br>this feeling that flows through you like electricity <br>through a glacier, that fills you like a silo of suffering <br>is the spear head that's embedded in the starmud of your heart <br>you can't pull out and you can't push through <br>given there's no exit, no entrance on the enclosures of life, <br>whether it be a secret garden, or a famous grave, <br>or you just want to be let off your leash like a playful dog<br>to chase the nurses like gulls on the terminal night ward, <br>or not cry out in pain to prove you're a Mongol of the soul, <br>this emotion that makes you feel so empty <br>in the light of the truth of the enormity of the pain <br>that's been overcome by life through the agony <br>of everything that's been endured for no one's sake<br>to vitally accommodate the unassessible transformations, <br> <br>of sentience adapting to its cruellest mutations, <br>and so surfeited with it all in the shadow of a lie, <br>this is the birthmark of that counter intuition<br>that makes life worthy of being lived against the odds <br>of ever being able to justify it to yourself or God, the zeitgeist<br>or anyone else in need of a proxy or a paraclete<br>to moderate the human divinity that's been bestowed upon us, <br>at the very least, by virtue of our suffering <br>and the unknown voice in the void of its release.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476442" data-title="A Feeling In The Heart That Overwhelms Thought de Patrick White" data-description="A feeling in the heart that overwhelms thought. 
Can the stars feel our pain like distant neurons? 
Thorns blunted in moments like this, the hands of time 
almost folded in prayer like the wings of a nightbird
whose lament has seized the air with ..."></div>
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