The Garden of Literature

From the Pages of My Diary...

I won't leave, unless you wish it of me. I am on a journey of discovery right now, a journey deep into my own psyche, a journey I've made countless times before, but relying upon others for guidiance I wound up upon their forks, their fixations and repressions, but not my own. The space of the collective human imagination is vast, and despite that good feeling of a resonance off a familiar sign post by the great men and women who have come before, my spirit is finally ready now to venture forth into virgin territory and with my own eyes witness the passing of the veils which blind us from what we ought to see, ought to know--our selves as we exist in this unique universe, and nature and beauty as we might never concieve it if one doesn't trust enough that intrinsic capacity inside of us to Will it so. So let it be.

In that blue, which only a few may enter is where we meet. The secret garden of literature is not open to everyone, and those that do pay a price: to be consistently untimely (in the sense of, Nietzsche's Untimely Meditations) with the temporary, contemporary society of the age. This is both a curse, and a blessing. For like Nicolo Machevilli or Petarch, one may call upon the giants of history to stand on their shoulders whence one own might not contain enough strenght to bear the pressure of oppression, which exists in every age, especially upon children and the young. We can feed on ichor, and glory, as much as milk and honey.  

And of that I am now in Need. For this seeking has left me again, in front of that high door which leads into Camus's Absurdity; Sin without God, a life of shifting meanings and no solid ground, no clear enemy, to lay my Self against. Like the psychological breakdown of a prisoner in solitary confinement, in that dark place, entombed in the prision of a mortal shell, the lies one tells oneself that constitute consciousness begin to breakdown, and the Real-(as Lacan defines it; that which Returns, always)-ality of the Subconscious asserts itself to the horror of our preconcieved notions. Either they break, or I break. 


Of Sermons and Songs; to lift the spirt.