You really should read this. It's powerful stuff.
The fat policeman entered the tomb, walked a few bewildered moments, then shouted with a stretched voice: “Omar Khayyám!”
No one answered, so he took a dirty white handkerchief from his pocket, searched in its folds, balled it up, and returned it to his pocket. He shouted grouchily: “Omar Khayyám…Omar Khayyám…You are wanted to stand trial!”
No one answered. The policeman left the tomb and returned to the police station. There, he wrote a report on the events, stressing Omar Khayyám’s refusal to appear in court. He presented his report to his bosses, who scowled in denial and shock. They began to issue orders. They immediately dispatched a number of policemen to the tomb, each carrying a shovel and pickax, and the policemen dug up Omar Khayyám’s grave. They brought Khayyám out from beneath the soil — drooping, dusty, and worn of flesh — and carried him to the courtroom, where he appeared before the judge.
The judge said in a sedate and friendly tone: “You, oh, Omar Khayyám, are accused of writing poetry that praises — and calls for the drinking of — wine. Our countries aspire toward economic independence, thus our laws forbid the importation of foreign goods. Since our countries lack the ability to manufacture wine, your poetry constitutes an incitement of demand for foreign goods — something the law punishes without hesitation. Do you admit and recognize your guilt?”
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me every single day of my life
me when I see the psychiatrist
Your needle has worn my grooves to deep.
Seeing unhealthy patterns in your family and deciding that those pattens end with you and will not be passed down to future generations is an extremely brave and powerful decision.
Forgive yourself for repeating what was taught to you as a child, then put the conscious effort into deprogram these patterns.
Art is hard, writing especially. You shouldn’t wait for inspiration to hit you, you should sharpen your blades, ready the guns, and hunt the damn thing down. Pin it to the page, and hold it there until it stops struggling. Go outside looking for it, talk to someone random on the bus about their coat, call a friend and ask them what the weirdest experience of their life involving the colour blue is. Hunt inspiration, do not let it hunt you.
I dreamed I spoke in another’s language, I dreamed I lived in another’s skin, I dreamed I was my own beloved, I dreamed I was a tiger’s kin. I dreamed that Eden lived inside me, And when I breathed a garden came, I dreamed I knew all of Creation, I dreamed I knew the Creator’s name. I dreamed–and this dream was the finest– That all I dreamed was real and true, And we would live in joy forever, You in me, and me in you.
Clive Barker, Days of Magic, Nights of War (via mysharona1987)
Beautiful!
The desert is coming to England. The daisies are pushing up dust. The henges are looming through ashes. Our sunsets are ochre and rust. And plaster Elizabeth peers from the sand, And plaster Victoria’s one outstretched hand Is silently crumbling back into the land Where the desert is coming to England.
We don’t know how long it was coming, The route that it wove through the wars. Our safety for years has been sealing Our ears and our minds and our doors. We thought we’d stay safe from the sorrows of what The wider world whispered by keeping them shut But the borders are closed and the cables are cut And the desert’s still coming to England
So sing of Britannia’s twilight, A lullaby to it’s last gleaming: Under the shadows, the satellite-fires To usher the end of her dreaming. We thought it would come with the beat of a drum, With the fire of our bows burning bright like the sun, But silently, slowly and softly it’s come: The desert is coming to England.
Whoever said that I was brave enough to face all this?
If all roads lead to Rome, how do you actually get out of Rome ?