The danger of counting poets among your friends
I wish there was still innocence.
That fluid state of mind when everything is mysteriously unknown and all questions are valid.
Who are you? Why are you here? Where are you going?
But here I am,
Quoting out loud the words I wish were spoken.
Reading them over and over until I can pretend they are as real as the book in my hand.
And there's a danger to reading too much. The limits are blurred.
Why do I prefer that limbo, in which reality and illusion blend?
I think of authors as friends I've known for years,
re-reading their works with a knowing smile, as if a friend was confiding a secret.
And literature is a powerful, reckless thing.
If you think metaphors are dangerous, try reading a book!
Derrida said there's nothing outside of the text, I think he might be right.
The text becomes alive and then everything is changed.
Should I acknowledge the fiction that I am?
If literature were a season it would have to be autumn.
If literature were a season it would have to be autumn.
Kommentarer
Trackback
