Let your bitterness of soul ripen into indifference as
the blinded bird crashes into the window when it flies against the wind.
Commonplace thought has become so rare, we celebrate
the echo of forgotten mediocrity.
Only hypocrites save the resonance of old ideals. Honest, straightforward thinkers, however,
don’t even see the mind out of which they were shaped.
If you believe you can become all that you dream, it
is best not to wake up too soon. If only
you believe in yourself, when all others mock or pity, the dream has already
become a nightmare. Why stumble around
in the dark?
When does a child discover the difference between the
scribbles and scrawls attached to the refrigerator by magnets to the unctuous
sounds of praise and the treasures in the Museum of Fine Arts? When is the artist, true to himself alone,
willing to look into the darkness and count the distant stars a million light
years away?
A duckbilled platitude is no prating moron, though it
never knows exactly how it evolved; and may, against the odds of logic and
commonsense, navigate against the river of time; until it negotiates the
fairest price from the gloomy gatekeepers of hell.
Koalas cool themselves by moving from the trees that
nourish to the branches that deflect the sun.
My grandmother kept a framed photograph of FDR in her
hallway, a token of esteem and pledge of happy days to come. I keep it in my house now, though the
evidence of the president’s perfidy is manifest, to remind me of her trust in
hope.
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