duminică, 26 martie 2017

I had dropped out of
art school when I met Eve.
She was very beautiful.
Very pale, cool in her black dress,
with never anything more
than a single strand of pearis.
And distant.
Always poised and distant.
By the time the giris were born,
it was all so perfect, so ordered.
Looking back, of course, it was rigid.
The truth is
she'd created a worid
around us that we existed in,
where everything had its place, where
there was always a kind of harmony.
Great dignity.
I will say... it was like an ice palace.
Then suddenly one day,
out of nowhere
an enormous abyss
opened up beneath our feet
and I was staring into
a face I didn't recognise
"The basic popularity and appeal of Mao
for so-called American Marxists."
This is supposed to go in the sequence -
in under the sequence
in reel two about South Africa.                  
Um... what we wanna
do is get two example:
The idea is his style was
Marxist-Leninist - Mao's style -
but that he was accessible to the lower
classes because of his use of homilies.
An example is: "The hardest thing is to
act properly throughout one's whole life."


What the hell does that mean?

Or, even worse...

And when the Lamb opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour... And the seven angels which had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.
Who are you?
I am Death.
You have come for me?
I have been for a long time at your side.
This I know.
Are you prepared?
My body is, but I am not.
Wait a moment.
You all say that. But I give no respite.

I want to confess as best I can, but my heart is void. The void is a mirror. I see my face and feel loathing and horror. My indifference to men has shut me out. I live now in a world of ghosts, a prisoner in my dreams.
Priest: Yet you do not want to die.
-Yes, I do.
Is it so hard to conceive God with one's senses? Why must He hide in a midst of vague promises and invisible miracles? How are we to believe the believers when we don't believe ourselves? What will become of us who want to believe but cannot? And what of those who neither will nor can believe? Why can I not kill God within me? Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way? I want to tear Him out of my heart, but He remains a mocking reality which I cannot get rid of. Do you hear me?
Death: I hear you.

I want knowledge. Not belief. Not surmise. But knowledge. I want God to put out His hand, show His face, speak to me.
But He is silent.
I cry to Him in the dark, but there seems to be no one there.
Perhaps there is no one there.
Then life is a senseless terror. No man can live with Death and know that everything is nothing.
Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness.
Until they stand on the edge of life and see the Darkness.

Ah, that day.

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