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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477020" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>When Imagination And Reality Are One</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When imagination and reality are one<br>and there's no recourse for civilization <br>to distinguish between them by usage and consensus, <br>and the light of the stars isn't condemned <br>to a life of hard labour as a torch in a coal mine <br>looking for diamonds you can drink by the grailful <br>until you're as satiate as oblivion, there's no doubt <br>the mind is an artist riffing on the new strings of the rain <br>or painting it in picture-music like a poet or a scientist<br>who look deranged to those who've averaged out <br>the crucials of the mindscape like the odds of a lottery, <br>convinced as they are like pilgrims walking <br>from one end of their sacred asphalt driveways<br>to the other, that one size fits all, and that these <br>enlightened journeys without destinations<br>are just circles that haven't been squared yet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if you're off on your own, <br>making roads with your walking you're the first <br>to set foot on like the moon of a spaced-out planet <br>you're trying to turn into something habitable, <br>remember it's an act of compassion not to lock the door <br>to the available dimensions of the future when you leave. <br>Remember that all six of your senses <br>live in the world you creatively visualize <br>like the aura of the life that surrounds you <br>like an ongoing masterpiece of incompletion.<br>Without them you might be a master of making trees, <br>but, hey, man, where are the birds? <br>I don't hear anything singing. <br>There's nothing to taste or touch or listen to. <br>No appearances to deceive your consciousness with. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When your eye's got an idea of the kind of star <br>it wants to be, before it's learned to see, it never shines.<br>Wondering what flora to root where in the expanding abyss <br>of the night before you, scatter the stars across the firmament <br>as if you were sowing the unknown seeds of the wildflowers <br>that scuttled themselves like arks <br>in the cracked creekbeds of your neocortical starmud <br>and waited patiently like hibernating frogs <br>for the conditioned chaos of the rain <br>to come like a flashflood of life-nourishing insight. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when you're annihilated <br>by the mystic terror of your own freedom<br>jimmying with the G-spot on your prison locks <br>to get them to open up like a coven of doves<br>that want to release their omens like feathers on the wind<br>that can scry and fly where they want, <br>don't linger in the doorway of your liberation.<br>Hesitation is the flypaper of light. <br>Stare straight into the eyes of the Medusa <br>until she's the one that blinks first in the savage snake pit<br>and the stone bird of your heart thaws like a volcano<br>potting islands in the draconian heat of its bloodstream <br>and the Gorgons start dancing to the music of their classical hair-dos<br>as if they could hear the wavelengths <br>of a pan flute lapping nearby like water.<br> <br>Kiss the serpent fire on the head <br>if you want to honour the shapeshifter <br>that sets your dark energy free to assume the form <br>of the world that moults the chrysalis of your imagination<br>that reassembles the rubble of the last gasp<br>into a house of transformation that fits you <br>like a bubble of supple skin where you alone <br>are the myth and physics of its origination. <br>And whatever world provides you with the mindscape <br>of your exploration, you recognize by the style <br>it's painted in as everywhere a work of your own<br>signed by the wind in the left hand bottom corner of the sky. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hard to tell the wells from the fountains <br>in the mingling mindstream that flows like life lines<br>into the frayed deltas of your palm. And what madness <br>hasn't always alloyed its backbone to the swords of the sane <br>defending their indigenous traditions of soft metal? <br>Don't stare into your cauldron as if you were trying <br>to read the future by the lint in your belly-button. <br>Actualize your magic and stir the womb a bit like a master of departures <br>with an intuitive genius for unitive metaphors.<br>Mix the paint on the palette into necromantic shades <br>of new underworlds weeping jewels on the roots <br>of the fireflowers bearing forbidden fruits <br>they'll carry by the armful with them out of the garden<br>like refugees running from an abandoned embassy<br>that used to give them shelter from themselves with impunity. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No limit. You can live in as many worlds as there are <br>grains of dust and pollen, where you're not allergic <br>to the stars, and the constellations come like the empty baggage<br>of a book that hasn't written a word to anyone, <br>nor appointed an alpha like the book end of a beginning <br>to balance the long vowel of omega at the other extreme<br>to let you know when it's all been said, and it's time <br>to lay the cornerstone of a myth of origin of your own, <br>a pebble in the random tide of providential events, <br>that doesn't need more than one leg to stand on <br>like a heron hunting fish in the bestiaries of the moon<br>that's finally given up its dead like a graveyard of Orphic skulls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Imagine your way like smoke through the eye of a keyhole <br>into spaces you create by your very being there<br>to summon them from the abyss, a carillon of dragons <br>on a holy day of reptiles when the lowest are blessed with wings, <br>or wall yourself into an aesthetically sealed garden <br>where the rain perennially washes the blood of the children <br>who finger-painted the flowers on your thin skin off, <br>and luxuriate in your fastidious appetite for insignificant details.<br>Mind is an artist. Able to paint the worlds as a sin of omission, <br>a sum of destructions, or the negative space of a hand<br>breaching stone with a spiritual tattoo on its palm, <br>indelibly invisible as nothing for whom nothing is out of reach. <br>Make heaven. Make hell. Who you are is where you live. <br>Nest in a bell like a bird under the roof of your mouth<br>or root like lightning in a cloud you left unweeded.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Out of the random ignitions and annihilations of dark matter<br>bombarding your senses like anti-photonic fireflies<br>emerges a world of shadows into the light <br>of your imagination like the rising of a new moon<br>engendered out of you restoring yourself to it <br>like a lost atmosphere that got carried away by wings.<br>You can say things into existence word by word<br>or you can talk them to death in the silence<br>that follows the ghost of ideas like darkness follows us. <br>Or you can let the night bird deep <br>in the solitude of your heart sing <br>your fervent yearning for a companionable world <br>into being sweeter than the immensity of your creative freedom <br>to long for it as if what were missing <br>would always seem somehow more real than what was not.</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=477020" data-title="When Imagination And Reality Are One de Patrick White" data-description="When imagination and reality are one
and there's no recourse for civilization 
to distinguish between them by usage and consensus, 
and the light of the stars isn't condemned 
to a life of hard labour as a torch in a coal mine 
looking for diamond..."></div>
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