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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476945" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Singularity</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You were the singularity at the bottom of the blackhole<br>where all the light and life and love and money went.<br>You were an abyss that just couldn't stand being empty. <br>You wanted to be a fat void in the midst of plenty. <br>You took your own body as the Standard Model of the Universe.<br>You were a death-maze that tried to make a living selling breadcrumbs. <br>You used to tell me <br>I could run from the blessing <br>but I could never escape the curse<br>of being an optimist for whom <br>things kept turning out for the worst.<br>You always did try to make an original point of the obvious<br>but your clarity was invariably cruel and cunning. <br>So I gave up arguing with you <br>and learned to grow orchids<br>that slept with secrets <br>in the shadow of that outhouse on the moon<br>you kept up like a diary of your changing moods.<br> <br>Being the stupid one<br>I thought love had substance and content <br>the way thought and feeling had flesh and blood.<br>You thought it was a wardrobe of auroral attitudes<br>you could put on or take off as you wish <br>like smoke in a mirror <br>or a whisper of lingerie.<br> <br>Sex with you was always a good day <br>and we had a lot of them <br>and that's how I ended up staying for six years. <br>That and the compassion I felt <br>for the tears of rage you would shed <br>like rain on the lava of a wounded volcano <br>that would pop up on the west coast without warning<br>and bury both of us like Pompey and Herculaneum<br>trying to grow geraniums on its harassed slopes<br>like the hippies who grew pot <br>on Mt. Saint Helen's<br>who aren't selling anymore.<br> <br>I always thought you gave your love to someone <br>and that's what made it a gift <br>but you bestowed yours upon me <br>as if it were a right <br>I should be grateful to receive. <br>I was abolished from diplomatic lip-service <br>in the court of the mad queen <br>time and again <br>for things I didn't mean <br>even in my native language<br>that were just too insane to believe.<br>But the body endures. <br>The mind copes. <br>And despair and ashes to me <br>given the tragic optimist I am <br>are full of high hopes <br>like spiritual loveletters <br>in earthbound envelopes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And just as I did then <br>when at least I taught you <br>what not to look for in a man <br>I hope you've found the simulacrum <br>of the real life you were looking for<br>and it's healed that crack in the mirror <br>that used to scar you like a black sail <br>on an empty horizon<br>waiting for cosmic news of the weather<br>that kept running you aground <br>like a widow on a beach<br>everytime the tide came in like providence<br>and left you just out of reach of yourself <br>like a wedding bouquet <br>the bride tossed away over her shoulder <br>without looking back.<br> <br>As for me <br>things have gotten worse for the better over the years.<br>Swimming through quicksand. <br>Swimming through stone. <br>Impersonal revelations of intimate stars. <br>Sometimes the moon shows me <br>the fossils of the ancient oracles<br>she's pressed between the pages <br>of her darkest shales<br>like deep wounds <br>gashed in the matrix of space and time <br>that were the distant ancestors of us<br>who have survived the truth of their prophecies <br>like scars without a myth of origin.<br> <br>I still end where I begin <br>like the black grammar of a white magician <br>answering for myself before my own inquisition<br>for heresies that were holy enough <br>to be condemned to the fire as proof <br>of their volatility. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your blood was a watercolour.<br>Mine was an oil. <br>And red was the colour of pain. <br>I shook things off me <br>like water off the fur of a dog <br>that's just come ashore<br>on the far side of the river. <br>You ran in the rain <br>like a crazy ribbon <br>from the gifts you were given to give<br>and didn't know how to survive. <br>But wanting to live <br>isn't the same thing <br>as trying to stay alive <br>though they're the two ends <br>of the same telescope. <br>When despair becomes<br>the orthodoxy of the age<br>and sinks like a heavyweight <br>who threw the fight like Atlantis<br>when it lost its sea-legs <br>the only true protest is hope<br>and the abandoned courage of a bubble <br>expanding like the universe <br>to break the surface <br>in a rapture of aquatic freedom <br>and disappear into the new medium <br>of an evolving atmosphere with wings.<br> <br>And sometimes it's hard <br>to remember the way things turned out <br>as if the certainties were brief weathervanes<br>of the good days that never came <br>and the doubts went on forever<br>looking for scapegoats they could blame<br>like the leftover smoke <br>of an extinguished candleflame. <br>And though I might be slow <br>I know I've been thorough over the years <br>in wishing you love and life <br>and laughter among friends.<br>So I've never summoned you by name <br>like a ghost to a seance of strangers <br>who think they know you better than I do<br>and make way too much of too many little things<br>that don't matter anymore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I haven't swept the stars off my stairs in years. <br>And there are loveletters <br>piled up in the mailbox<br>that say I'm in arrears <br>and when the windows cry <br>as they sometimes still do <br>looking out over the vastness <br>of the view from here <br>at the solitary figures fading <br>into the landscape of their homelessness<br>I try to cheer them up<br>like a reflecting telescope <br>by getting them to look at the bright side of things<br>by exchanging their lenses for mirrors <br>the way love does<br>new lamps for old <br>when everything that's beautiful and lucid <br>disappears under a veil of rain <br>like old eyes looking out at the world <br>through the new tears of a stranger's pain<br>like a faithful death-wish that's come true again.</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=476945" data-title="The Singularity de Patrick White" data-description="You were the singularity at the bottom of the blackhole
where all the light and life and love and money went.
You were an abyss that just couldn't stand being empty. 
You wanted to be a fat void in the midst of plenty. 
You took your own body as t..."></div>
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