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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476722" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I've Stopped Mistaking My Life</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I’ve stopped mistaking my life <br>for evidence I exist. <br>I’ve stopped watering<br>palm-trees in a mirage.<br>I’m leaking out of myself <br>like sand through a crack<br>in a wounded hourglass.<br>I’ve stopped doing my time <br>standing up <br>and approach things more <br>like a circle <br>that’s been squared <br>by a reclusive hypotenuse. <br>I’ve stopped asking <br>how many legs are on a snake <br>or what does it mean <br>when things don’t mean anything. <br>For all the auditions I held <br>I never did find a stand-in <br>for the meaning of meaning.<br>I can hear crutches breaking <br>like dead branches <br>from the tree of knowledge<br>that rails like an ice-storm in hell<br>there’s no light for its chandeliers.<br>How many voices are in a secret? <br>How many theories in a thought? <br>How many lovers had to die<br>to keep one feeling alive? <br>I deserted the circus of high ideals. <br>I unfeathered my heels <br>and stopped trying to invent <br>new alphabets that would read like birds<br>before the first snow.<br>When you’re everywhere <br>there’s nowhere left to go. <br>I stopped telling time to its face <br>what hour it was and wasn’t <br>and started listening to it <br>as if it had nothing to say. <br>I stopped asking space for i.d. <br>and it stopped showing me <br>an old picture of me <br>with one eye. <br>A voice spoke <br>out of the purposeless undoing of the fire<br>and everything went up like smoke <br>trying to get a little higher. <br>I wasn’t on a mission <br>to save the souls of the trees <br>like native peoples <br>by converting them <br>to doors and ladders.<br>I swept through steeples <br>like a forest-fire<br>And the judgment came down: <br>Nothing matters.<br>And I knew I was free<br>to take liberties with the abyss. <br>And everywhere I rode <br>a flying carpet of karma<br>through the infinite darkness <br>unspooling like a wavelength of light<br>I made up my own myths <br>about the stars that were passing<br>clandestine lovenotes through my eyes<br>as if they were doves <br>sent out to look for me like land.<br>But I had a hell of a flood <br>of my own going on <br>and took wing for Atlantis. <br>I’ve given up trying to walk on water<br>but I can go for miles on quicksand. <br>Stars are another matter. <br>A firewalk you take alone. <br>I live in a house <br>where the windows<br>are lightyears across <br>and a black hole <br>is my last known address<br>surrounded by trees <br>that keep opening my mail <br>like leaves of their own <br>to see who signed <br>what the light confessed<br>when it wanted to get <br>the night off its chest. <br>Tell me your sorrows. <br>Tell me your fears. <br>Tell me your hopes and passions <br>and I’ll listen like a universe <br>to its own afterbirth <br>like a flawed soul <br>listens with compassion to the rain. <br>Illusory cures for illusory diseases<br>perhaps<br>detailed maps <br>of rivers that never flowed.<br>But I take a deep breath <br>and put my shoulder to the wind like a bell<br>that’s taken on a heavy load <br>like a backhoe in heaven <br>excavating graves <br>to see if anything <br>can truly save us from ourselves. <br>I come up like the full moon <br>of a mushroom in the night <br>and I wait for elves <br>to enthrone me like a footstool <br>under everybody’s feet <br>as the last of the hanging judges<br>takes his seat. <br>But I know like a man <br>who wrestles with angels <br>how to grow stronger with every defeat.<br>I am no longer defined by things <br>that don’t know the limits <br>of what I’m becoming<br>now that I’ve dropped off my body and mind <br>like a demon jumping from paradise <br>without a parachute. <br>And this is the anti-papal decretal <br>of the fallible man <br>they stone with churches on earth<br>for showing up blessed like a human<br>who took the shape of the world <br>from the inside out<br>not the outside in. <br>This way lies redemption. <br>That way, too. <br>Fire’s not a heresy <br>that’s committed to its flames<br>anymore than autumn consumes <br>the heartwood of its orthodoxies<br>when it burns the trees. <br>Desire doesn’t cut the tongue<br>out of the mouth of love <br>for saying the secret name of God<br>as if it weren’t junkmail <br>on the threshold <br>of the old neighbourhood<br>the cornerstones of sounder reasons<br>had torn down like a slum <br>to make room <br>for better things to come.<br>There are still scarlet geraniums <br>blooming in red brick clay pots <br>on the windowsills of longing <br>that haven’t lost their faith <br>like leaves yet <br>one day they’ll return to the garden.<br>And baby boys born<br>like heartsongs with hards on <br>that are not the cliches<br>of impish cherubs<br>in a painting of original sin<br>but angels holding burning swords <br>at the gates of the mothers <br>they’ve been driven out of<br>to guard the way in. <br>It’s deeply ontological. <br>But if things didn’t happen this way <br>how could you ever find <br>your own way back <br>to that shortcut you took <br>like time off at the beginning? <br>And haven’t you noticed yet <br>how the universe keeps showing up <br>a star too late for the end of things<br>making up excuses along the way<br>like a touring playhouse on wheels<br>rehearsing what to say <br>for the long delay <br>in catching up to itself like a thief? <br>You can tell a lot about a man <br>by what he steals. <br>You can tell a lot about a world<br>by the way your life feels <br>when there’s no one around <br>to make a sound<br>as you fall like a tree in the forest.<br>How many koans need to be cracked <br>like skulls full of insight <br>before you get the gist of the joke <br>that everything you see <br>is whole and perfect and broke. <br>Hell and heaven <br>are only the first two stairs<br>on this fire-escape<br>the stars have lowered to earth.<br>And then there’s a bridge to the other side <br>of a river that’s given up looking <br>for its lost shores <br>to put an end to its weeping.<br>And I don’t know who she is yet <br>but beyond that <br>there’s a woman on her knees <br>crying like one of life’s immensities <br>for her dead baby<br>as she washes its blood off the floors <br>with her hair <br>for safe-keeping.</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=476722" data-title="I've Stopped Mistaking My Life de Patrick White" data-description="I’ve stopped mistaking my life 
for evidence I exist. 
I’ve stopped watering
palm-trees in a mirage.
I’m leaking out of myself 
like sand through a crack
in a wounded hourglass.
I’ve stopped doing my time 
standing up 
and approach things ..."></div>
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