it is still tomorrow
make more room for the past
into the future
the rhythm of our time is in
the narrative perhaps
I was too often said to be
crazy like one grandma
not odd enough I’ve always felt
like being born out of my papa -
two knives in the same sheath
cause papa Zeus was devouring his child
so one day came when
I was drowning in my blood
-confessing can be hard and bitter-
crooked with incessant need to love
I let each morning scream
acts of imagination and lonesome tears were
craving for some tender understanding
terror instead of midnight dreams
I was a beggar burdened with awe
(all I ever wanted was You – mother,
you-father,
you-brother,
you-lover,
you-friend&foe;
you-the Other)
now if you think words are just words
you’re sooooo mistaken
living creatures they are
breeding selfhood
torching the shadows cast by feelings
in intensity
thus I took refuge in the future
-the deserted island of our best illusions-
enclosed myself in a dream
against the movements of pain
dismantling, maddening
it's only now that I can speak about myself
in the third person
"wo Es war, soll Ich werden"
so let the light explode in the windshield
it doesn’t matter where I’m heading
as long as I’m a lullaby
and You’re singing with me
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
it is still tomorrow
make more room for the past
into the future
the rhythm of our time is in
the narrative perhaps
I was too often said to be
crazy like one grandma
not odd enough I’ve always felt
like being born out of my papa -
two knives in the same sheath
cause papa Zeus was devouring his child
so one day came when
I was drowning in my blood
-confessing can be hard and bitter-
crooked with incessant need to love
I let each morning scream
acts of imagination and lonesome tears were
craving for some tender understanding
terror instead of midnight dreams
I was a beggar burdened with awe
(all I ever wanted was You – mother,
you-father,
you-brother,
you-lover,
you-friend&foe;
you-the Other)
now if you think words are just words
you’re sooooo mistaken
living creatures they are
breeding selfhood
torching the shadows cast by feelings
in intensity
thus I took refuge in the future
-the deserted island of our best illusions-
enclosed myself in a dream
against the movements of pain
dismantling, maddening
it's only now that I can speak about myself
in the third person
"wo Es war, soll Ich werden"
so let the light explode in the windshield
it doesn’t matter where I’m heading
as long as I’m a lullaby
and You’re singing with me
"Follow your bliss."
Joseph Campbell
