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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476626" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Don't Care If You Remember Me Or Not</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't care if you remember me or not. <br>I'm not going anywhere. I'll still be here. <br>But I'm going to disappear soon enough <br>and you can have the mirror all to yourself.<br>I can't imagine dying alone is any deeper<br>than this solitude I've been living on my own.<br>Take that chisel of a tongue and chip<br>my cartouche off that gravestone I'm not under yet<br>as if you just discovered a new talent<br>for pecking away at death as if you were married to it. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm out of here. This is my grand exit. Like Keats <br>I make it with an awkward bow, the way the deer do <br>when they come down to the river to drink. <br>I don't make it in anger. I'm not judging a mirage <br>because it doesn't slake my thirst for real water. <br>I'm not bitter, vicious, or proud. I see myself <br>in you, especially when you're crying without <br>a knife in your hand you wield like a paper cut <br>of the last crescent of the moon. It makes me sad<br>that we live more separately than we ever will in death. <br>I can remember when you first took my breath away, <br>and now, if you want to give it back, that's ok, <br>that's ok, too, as my brother would say, listening <br>like an amputee to the one-handed applause of the Buddha. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are gaps, there are voids and abysses, <br>there are neuronic synapses, godheads, bardo states <br>and black holes we all have to bridge sooner or later. <br>Love's one of them. Death's another. And life's <br>a country road with so many potholes it's shell-shocked.<br>You can efface my name from your memorial wall<br>but I'm sure I'll turn you into poetry somewhere <br>along the way. I'm thawing into tears <br>like an Arctic ice cap faster than I should <br>but I'll hold you in my cold, cold heart forever <br>like a dolmen without snow nobody knows the name of. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">More wonderful things get said in the doorways <br>of farewell through the veils of our motiveless tears <br>than you're ever going to hear on the thresholds of hello<br>when everyone mythically inflates their uncontested lies <br>in the name of love. It's not much of a triumph <br>to ride in a golden chariot of the sun through a slum.<br>It's a little vehicle, and come the first serious eclipse, <br>you're on black ice on a highway late at night on your own, <br>however many corpses you've sand-bagged in the rear<br>to give it some weight. Kitty litter and ashes <br>for traction are better than rose-petals and thorns <br>strewn along your path. You get a better grip on things <br>as you're turning your wheels into the direction of your spin<br>or somersaulting over your handle bars like a cow <br>that jumped over the moon. As for me. The moonrise <br>raises a spoonful of ashes to my lips and I try <br>to take my medicine like a solitary nightbird <br>sipping from the fountain of a dark muse <br>like a lunar fish in the watershed of a total eclipse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'll never wish you ill. And I'll try really hard <br>never to dispel your delusions of me as someone<br>you might have been able to love. Sorry about the discrepancy. <br>Mirages on a sundial. Lighthouses on the moon. <br>Sharks and shipwrecks. Shouldn't our dreams and delusions, <br>our secret nightmares, be accorded the same <br>ontological dignity as any other God particle <br>in the transmorphic context of reality? They move <br>the world as much as mass or gravity and they're<br>as counterintuitively absolute and constant <br>as the speed of light. Everyone's trying to write <br>their own unified field theory to explain everything <br>all at once to themselves, as if they were whispering <br>seas of rising awareness into their own ear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've lived too long under this cloak of the mystery <br>I bear as best I can like a mantle of starmud <br>in the name of a thousand poets who bore it <br>in their turn to suffer the solitude of their revelry <br>like the calyx of a black hole in the center of a galaxy <br>consuming two hundred billion stars in a single gulp <br>to stay drunk enough for light years to learn <br>to breathe in the light before they're willing to let it go. <br>To kiss the bud of the wildflower into the open<br>and step back into the light like a shadow at noon<br>and watch it grow without you. Noblesse oblige.<br>And I don't mean it cynically. The wolf howls. <br>The dog barks. The road leads like a trail of blood <br>to a dark grove of trees where everything heals by itself <br>and death is a retroactive edition of a posthumous future <br>that lies up ahead like road kill. Like it or not. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sooner or later every persistent absurdity is interred <br>in an aura of grace, as if we gave the dead<br>the benefit of the doubt we begrudge the living. <br>That said. Still hard to kiss the stinging nettles <br>like hooded cobras on the head spitting in your eyes <br>like the Taliban just as you're learning to read <br>the writing on the wall. So the blind prophets<br>learn to love the dark. So the candle that's burning <br>to shed some light on the night and the stars <br>goes out in a gust of breath like a secret chandlier <br>on the dark side of death. And what are we left with<br>that might remotely stick it out with us <br>in search of a treasure chest that isn't <br>just another bone box of sacred relics? I used to think <br>scars from the stars that enlightened us <br>like Medusas of white phosphorus that bit <br>like high frequency wavelengths in a snake pit <br>the moon was agitating like ripples and scales <br>on the skin of a mirror we thought we'd shed <br>relationships ago. But now my youth has outgrown me<br>I go well out of my way to err on the side of compassion <br>more than I ever longed to know the truth<br>of what we're all doing here together <br>trying to stay true to the circuitous path we're on <br>by getting lost in each other's eyes and arms.</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=476626" data-title="I Don't Care If You Remember Me Or Not de Patrick White" data-description="I don't care if you remember me or not. 
I'm not going anywhere. I'll still be here. 
But I'm going to disappear soon enough 
and you can have the mirror all to yourself.
I can't imagine dying alone is any deeper
than this solitude I've been livin..."></div>
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