Each soul is a melody which must be picked up again, and the flute or the viola of everyone exist for that.
It seems to me, it is the true condition or the possibility not just of expressing oneself but of modulating oneself as one chooses.
Languages are imperfect in that although there are many, the supreme one is lacking: thinking is to write without accessories, or whispering, but since the immortal word is still tacit, the diversity of tongues on the earth keeps everyone from uttering the word which would be otherwise in one unique rendering, truth itself in its substance… Only, we must realize, poetry would not exist; philosophically, verse makes up for what language lack, completely superior as it is.

The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, yielding his initiative to words, which are mobilized by the shock of their differences; they light up with reciprocal reflection like a virtual stream of firework over jewels, restoring perceptible breath to the former lyric impulse, or the enthusiastic personal directing of the sentence.

Bring your comments to SYZYGY, Paintednote.net Thursday night

Oscar Wilde made an enigmatic claim, ” Most people are other people.”

We are indeed influenced to an amazing extend by people with whom we identify.

Many of the conflicts and barbarities in the world are sustained through the illusion of a unique and choiceless identity.

A major source of potential conflict in the contemporary world is the presumption that people can be uniquely categorized based on religion or culture.

A unique divisive view goes not only against the old-fashioned believe that all human beings are much the same but also against the less discussed but much more plausible understanding that we are diversely different.

The world is frequently taken to be a collection of religions or cultures, ignoring the other identity that people have and values, involving class, gender, profession, language, science, morals, and politics.

This unique divisiveness is much more confrontational than the universe of plural and diverse classifications that shape the world in which we actually live.

A place where whatever you think is right, you can live it.
A place where you can become what you think.
A place where your poetry become your blood, bones and marrow.
A place where the false self does not enter.