In between each word my thoughts wait in the shadows. This is the mystery of literature. It is the marriage of thought and writing; and in writing thought is half lost, and in thinking writing is half lost. I would like to stand on my head and let the thoughts drip from my mind, leaving my darkest confessions in a wet mess on the page. I should learn to admire the paper in all its cosmic blankness. Instead, my hands shake until it is covered in ink and I have devoured all. And still I hunger.
Why do I write feverishly when I'm far from home? I have been reading too, with a mad urgency, until my eyes turn red and bleed out the superfluous knowledge and fictional worlds that I've seen. I have been led to new dark continents, across a sea of words in which I'd calmly drown. Show me an ocean in this real world in which I can drown! I am bored of just getting my feet wet. - Journal entry, Ham Wrong MountainVietnam
Untie the braids in your hair, now run your fingers through This is not me speaking this is you Hold one hand over your heart, now sleep This is your overnight religion Wake, but not outside of yourself Leave one eye open and shut the other Know the light by knowing also the dark Do not stand in your shadow and wonder why it's night The moon will rise in the east and set in the west When it is full you will hunger, let it feed on you this time Learn to give yourself
One day, communication will transcend language and instead of cheap talk the vines of the soul will be connected. It will look like tangled electricity and it will feel like making love. The universe will fall away and only invisible things will survive, like spirits and sound waves. Our new dimension will have no walls and we will vibrate on a higher frequency that is beyond good and evil. Amen
The street singer writes his letters to a crowd defened by the machinery of night. Those who pass want to stop and sway but lack the courage to abandon their substance for the shadow. So they walk on, leaving washed up footprints on the sidewalk like waves trying to escape the sea. Does the city sing? and when they hear the music does it make the lines in their body curve. Yes? no. Have they mistaken the burning tip of my cigarette for the stars. How long has it been since they ran their fingers over wet paint, instead of watching it dry.
“Every once in a while, but not often, you can sit down and write a thing that you know is going to stand people’s hair on end for the rest of their lives- a perfect memory of some kind, like a vision, and you can see the words rolling out of your fingers and bouncing around for a while like wild little jewels before they finally roll into place & line up just exactly like you wanted them to…” - Hunter.S.Thompson