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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476859" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sitting In The Dark</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sitting in the dark <br>being who I am by acclamation. <br>The solitude half memory, half exorcism. <br>No one else ran for the position <br>so I've settled on trying to live up empathetically <br>to this person that's tried for so long to be me. <br>The sound of the occasional car on Highway 7<br>six blocks away <br>puts its hand over its mouth.<br>Everything's a secret at this time of the night. <br>And it occurs to me <br>I've always been a stranger to myself.<br>The enigma in the doorway across the street.<br>My windows. My keys. My locks. <br>But always looking up at my own place <br>as if someone else lived there instead of me.<br>A man with no return address on his homelessness. <br>As if I were always catching a glimpse of myself <br>going around the next corner <br>and I'm the tail I'm trying to lose.<br>Or giving the occasional mirror <br>caught totally off guard <br>cold chills in passing <br>like a ghost with unknown enterprises of its own.<br>My freedom enclosed <br>within the sum of its limits <br>I live in an elsewhere zone <br>where the mystery of what I'm doing here <br>goes to extremes <br>like a tent city outside <br>the vacancy of an unoccupied metropolis<br>of anti-social landlords<br>to prove I have a right <br>to the portable threshold of my homelessness. <br>I'm beached like a birch bark canoe<br>that isn't going anywhere <br>on the shoals of my stream of consciousness<br>trying to figure out who's doing the saying <br>and who's doing the listening.<br>Though most people think <br>one is the spitting image of the other's reflection <br>verbal expression is not thought<br>and you can't hear it before you say it.<br>Even too late for the drunks to be out <br>I like the way the half-hearted moonlight <br>interprets my face through its fingertips<br>as if I were having my portrait done in braille. <br>What could that look like <br>when you've connected all the dots <br>if not an eclipse or a new moon? <br>Take your pick.<br>And I may be somewhat out of touch <br>with how dark things have become <br>but I know this much <br>this much at least I know.<br>Worse than despair <br>is learning how not to care. <br>I mean what have you got left <br>when all's been said and done and gone <br>if not for a few old reflexive delusions <br>in a holy war of tribal mirages <br>that have made a habit of your heart<br>just as drugs become the cosmology of junkies.<br>It's no more absurd <br>to be left standing like an echo in a doorway <br>long after the house has been torn down <br>than it is to paint realistic watercolours in the rain<br>en plein air.<br>I thought I had a message once <br>worthy of descending doves.<br>I could feel the wind under the dragon's wings <br>open like the firedoor to a furnace full of prophets.<br>And the words were mine true enough<br>until I realized how much life like art <br>is totally plagiarized from the medium it creates in<br>and how imperative it was <br>to be reborn from your mother-tongue <br>like a whole new language of evolving memes<br>if you want to be taken at your word <br>even in hell as in heaven <br>you know how to speak for yourself <br>without resorting to paracletes <br>even when you're persuasively certain <br>no one can understand you. <br>Every word might contain a dead metaphor <br>but when mine aren't demonically possessed<br>and speaking in tongues <br>they're buzzing around the azaleas <br>like hummingbirds and bees <br>sipping black kool-aid in Jonestown. <br>I start out writing like a new moon <br>but by the time it's done with me <br>I'm a total eclipse in an ink pot, <br>indelibly. <br>That's why I'm sitting here in the dark<br>trying not to adulterate the light <br>with cosmic thoughts of all night streetlamps <br>in an empty parking lot <br>where everyone overpays a price<br>for their little square of time and space. <br>I've got a digital alarm clock <br>with three and a half numbers that glow in the dark <br>like an informant trying to warn me <br>before it's way too late for all of us <br>to adjust my time-zone and dial it back.<br>To when? <br>To when it was a better world? <br>To when I was a better man? <br>To the last chance I had to become one?</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=476859" data-title="Sitting In The Dark de Patrick White" data-description="Sitting in the dark 
being who I am by acclamation. 
The solitude half memory, half exorcism. 
No one else ran for the position 
so I've settled on trying to live up empathetically 
to this person that's tried for so long to be me. 
The sound of t..."></div>
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