And the world’ll go on without me,
This is certain sure.
Should you choose to doubt me,
I’ll leave and close the door.
What a voyage this has been,
This life of mine!
Every hour I wake, to find some new blossom,
Hanging in the trees over my head!
Blossoms the shape of clouds,
Blossoms the shape of fire,
Blossoms the shape of love.
All that has already passed away,
And all that is still to come,
On this long strange road.
schmudde:
The answer I gave -
I make movies. It’s a lot of work and not a lot of pay. That doesn’t bother me unless I’m working on a project, mine or someone else’s, and I think to myself “this movie doesn’t matter because what it’s saying doesn’t matter.”
The essence of “matter” is beauty. I don’t…
As usual, very well said. No reason to live a shallow life. Futile efforts there.
spookedya:
“Poetry of Nine Stages”
Anyone know the proper source for this? Nice work. Also depressing.
Perhaps it’s true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes. And that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house—the charred clock, the singed photograph, the scorched furniture—must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. Preserved. Accounted for. Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.
