Genius or Madness or Just this Fernando Pessoa moment

I’d like to say that it [life] [death] [mortality] [universal bliss and mayhem] [whatever you want to call it] is all OK and perhaps it is but today i am a slave, i am every moment a servant of myself and of every possible other thing or being, some moments a master, this moment dying and being reborn in that and in each of these moments there is incredible science that is far too slow for me whilst feeling and there is nothing. It is a kind chaos that I am in. Both easy, and mythic to keep it going or to wipe it out. How shall I Choose?

This is either madness or just a great Fernando Pessoa moment…

Oh the things poems are made of, trees, paper, glass, smoke, dolls, plastic, toxicity and candy–places, people, things, rhyme, metaphor, rhetoric, letters and syntax, symbols or signs…

to bring it down to the specifics, the language, to give you the mathematics, the details of such consonants and vowels–how trite. I’d rather hover up above in such emotional complexity
where it’s so much easier for me to leave the matter behind. To feel things into oblivion and know the end is the beginning. It’s both a gift and a blessed curse to be so quick and so far far behind.

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