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I am not a rocket scientist. I am an explorer. The only things I can draw are symbols, but I can write elaborately. This is not a testament to my existence. It's a humdrum of reality. I am not a fake and I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring fake around me. I culture an existence of truth and not fear, love and not fear, sound and silence, too. Don't be scared to step to me, but please, do it with love- or I'll fuck your ass up.
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I am a book I neither wrote nor read,
A comic, tragic play in which new masquerades
Astonishing as guns crackle like raids
Newly each time, whatever one is prepared
To come upon, suddenly dismayed and afraid,
As in the dreams which make the fear of sleep
The terror of love, the depth one cannot leap.
How the false truths of the years of youth have passed!
Have passed at full speed like trains which never stopped
How little I knew, or which of them was the one
To mount and ride to hope or where true hope arrives.
I no more wrote than read that book which is
The self I am, half-hidden it is
From one and all who see within a kiss
The lounging formless blackness of an abyss.
How could I think the brief years were enough
To prove the reality of endless love?
Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966)
