Posted in poetry

Song of myself

The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute
longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day’s work? who will soonest be through with
his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?


— Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass.

Posted in poetry, self

It’s all illusion

Remember young sir, it’s all illusion; and dreams though potent, are no solution to the problems that we face. The rainbows that we chase are no more real than the idea that your foot will heal. My words no doubt seem strange to you, but please remember that they’re true.

— The Pied Piper of Hamelin – Faerie Tale Theatre.