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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476516" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>By The Light I Have Been Given To Go By</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">By the light I have been given to go by, <br>I can see how homeless the journey truly is. <br>How provisional the shrines along the way like milestones<br>we stop to paint like the inside of our skulls<br>or the caves we first dwelled in with our dead<br>buried under fire and the numinosity of our picture music<br>impregnating the womb walls of a space made sacred by fear.<br>The darkness bears my secrets, and in the torchlight, <br>in carbon and red ochre, a diary of shamans <br>gored by defecating rhinos speared to death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have imagined my way into an understanding <br>that is a rite of passage into a space that is <br>a vast abyss of intelligence, a nothingness <br>that speaks through an intuitive grammar of things<br>as if a galaxy, a star, stone, tree, raindropp were each a thought, <br>a sign, a word, the syntax of a growing paradigm <br>of creative awareness that we're completely alone <br>and lost at sea like fish on the moon crawling out of its tides<br>as if nothing bound us, not even detachment, <br>nor a god that exists as a confession of the way we do, <br>nor any medium we work in as reflection of our presence <br>labouring away at an unattainable world that won't exist <br>until we do, and it's 7 to 5 against anyone making it that far.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But what a joy to emerge out of our own nothingness <br>like a secret we're letting ourselves in on, <br>making it up as we go along like a deportable myth of origin<br>we can adapt to our infinite beginnings <br>because for starters, it has none of its own. <br>We were born to express ourselves like apple trees. <br>We were born to see and be happy marvelling at the event.<br>To enjoy longing for things we were never missing<br>and be guided by wise men we never listen to <br>back to a silence that has nothing to say for itself <br>that we didn't already know in the first place. <br>Everywhere is the threshold of the return journey.<br>Life is either an exile, or it stays at home like a follower.<br>Bless the enlightened apostates of the dangerous religion <br>that desecrates the mind by worshipping it. <br>Why make a chain out of your umbilical cord <br>and get your head wrapped around it like a noose <br>because you forgot meaning was an art <br>and not a way to take yourself way too seriously to heart? <br>Why go to war with your own mind <br>just to administer to the needs of the suffering <br>when you can paint a god in blood and ashes <br>and decultify yourself with the creative freedom <br>of your imagination deconstructing the fable of your belief<br>that it's the being, not the becoming, that endures.<br>And you can do this without even knowing how to draw. <br>A starmap doesn't shine. A blue print doesn't open a door. <br>If you ask a crutch to do your walking for you, <br>it's going to throw you away like a miracle <br>at the top of the stairs of Notre Dame de Coeur. <br>Better to be the sacred whore of a thousand profligate gods <br>than the unrepentant nun of one who shuts the world out, <br>like art for art's sake, to revel in her own extinction <br>in a mystical connubium with an unregenerate imagination. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You can burn your gates and cages in a wild field if you like <br>for not being able to keep the flowers in, or keep the wind <br>from rioting with the leaves way past curfew, <br>but there was never any risk of being granted what you ask <br>because life is the unpredictable moon rise<br>that deepens the calendars with a renewed humility <br>towards the extraordinary mutability of time.<br>What have you ever been that baffled your imagination? <br>It isn't reason that inspires us to become a stranger tomorrow <br>to the self we knew today. Genuine faith isn't <br>an artificial life support system to keep something alive <br>that should have been allowed to die quietly away yesterday.<br>Millions upon millions of facts like a graveyard of skeleton keys <br>to a door we can't find open within ourselves <br>as if we'd just stepped through it to be here where we live <br>deciphering the shapes of the clouds as if we lived in code. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hide your secret deep enough if you want it to be known. <br>Walk alone as far as you can until you can't <br>if you want the world to walk the rest of the way with you.<br>The white demon that knows heaven and hell experientially <br>mentors the senses in the spiritual subtleties of the black angel <br>that comes like the new moon of a third eye <br>to help the exegetes of light see further into the dark<br>by blowing their candles out like flowers. <br>All seekers are roads looking for a map to follow. <br>Preludes after the fact, that set out to look for their own endings. <br>Be a star. And keep your afterlife behind you <br>like the shadow of the last form you cast upon the earth. <br>Be an eye that doesn't leave any room between the moon <br>and it's reflection so that the substance of life is seeing<br>not that you're a distinct and separate entity <br>that cosmically identifies with your exclusion<br>but that you're wholly within easy reach of everything<br>that depends upon you for its existence. Just as every leaf <br>you let fall in the autumn like an adage of wisdom<br>about how you can know the world by its fruits<br>first came to the tree like a smile to your face<br>when you realized your imagination was <br>the inconceivable dynamic of a creative state of grace.</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=476516" data-title="By The Light I Have Been Given To Go By de Patrick White" data-description="By the light I have been given to go by, 
I can see how homeless the journey truly is. 
How provisional the shrines along the way like milestones
we stop to paint like the inside of our skulls
or the caves we first dwelled in with our dead
buried ..."></div>
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