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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476855" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Since I Was A Child</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Since I was a child, this longing in my heart<br>for something I can't even name, but keeps<br>drawing me into it like a unfulfilled abyss, <br>unattainably alluring, but the space <br>saturated with pain as if time itself were grieving<br>like the white noise of the cosmic background, <br>or the love of a created thing for this that has come<br>would always be left unanswered and unrequited. <br>Times I've thought the emptiness, because<br>nature abhors a vacuum, was life's way <br>of enticing me into the available dimensions of the future, <br>a furtherance of me as a means of achieving its own ends.<br>I could blunder my way toward it as the labour of my life<br>in pursuit of an earthly excellence radiant with stars, <br>sublime as a root, with the dynamic equilibrium of a tree <br>that had weathered many storms in the name <br>of a beautiful absurdity that adorned the heart <br>with the tenderness of fireflies without losing <br>any of the impact of a life-changing meteor shower.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Maybe I'm just chasing ghosts of the unborn <br>who should have been and my longing's <br>a kind of mourning that confuses the past <br>with what's missing when it's really the future <br>that's suffered a miscarriage, and the way <br>a woman's body grieves like a planet <br>for a shepherd moon that's lost, I sense <br>the devastation of the coming years and my heart <br>aches with compassion for what is yet to be lived through<br>and all I can do is retain a future memory <br>of the bloody rose I can see in the bedsheets <br>of a spiritual hemorrhage we'll wake up beside<br>one morning like a shattered window <br>into the souls and hearts and minds we denied<br>any possibility of life to because <br>we hoarded our potential for love so lethally.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Life keeps its balance by constantly adapting<br>to its growing awareness of what it's made of itself<br>as do we making it up as we go along approximating <br>the probable concourse of affairs spontaneously. <br>You might say consciousness, the light that each <br>has been given to go by, is what evolution<br>looks like on the inside, urgent with creation. <br>The gathering. The mingling. The dissipation.<br>All the eddies and currents of thought and emotion <br>writing on the mindstream sometimes in Kufic script, <br>sometimes Irish kells, or maybe just heavy-hearted bells <br>that like to write their own songs and sing them <br>to no one but themselves, as if the mystery <br>of their sadness were sweeter kept than told. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I came like a stranger to the burnt gate <br>of my unsurvivable longing, and it was open <br>as if it had been waiting for me, and I walked barefoot <br>in the ashes of the flowers that were being emptied<br>like the urns of many past lives on the wind, <br>until I came to one that bloomed like a waterlily of fire, <br>a blossom of enlightenment, a sun that shone at midnight, <br>and for awhile, as still happens from time to time, <br>I walked in my own profusion like a garden again <br>so alone with a blue moon in Pisces only<br>the most courageous of lovers could enter my solitude<br>like the fruits of the earth, like a windfall of stars, <br>like a gust of fireflies out to make constellations of us all<br>that evolve, as circumstances change, into intimate zodiacs <br>that keep us all fire walking on our mindstream <br>like maple leaves in an autumn that just won't go out <br>like inspiration and life and longing, the mystery <br>in the beautiful eyes of the muses of crazy wisdom.</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=476855" data-title="Since I Was A Child de Patrick White" data-description="Since I was a child, this longing in my heart
for something I can't even name, but keeps
drawing me into it like a unfulfilled abyss, 
unattainably alluring, but the space 
saturated with pain as if time itself were grieving
like the white noise o..."></div>
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