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"the helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the muses and the graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
("all things can tempt me from this craft of verse: one time it was a woman's face, or worse- the seeming needs of my fool-driven land." - w.b. yeats)
who am i to tell you who i am? my own mind confuses me and i am unable to look upon myself as an unbiased observer. all i know is that i'm somewhere between the muses and graces and the dilapiated house in a strange turmolt of fact, fiction, fantasy, reality, what i choose to see, what may be worth fighting for... the saddest thing in the world to me is someone who does not have the heart to fight. the fight need not be physical or past personal boundaries, but there is a fight for everyone to win or lose, just to take part in. that is the meaning of life: to fight the good fight. to find something that brings out the part of you that is all of me: righteous idealism. this isn't a world of rights and wrongs, blacks and whites, but rather the strange, gooey insides of the greys in between. the beauty of life is intensified once that is realized, the innocence and complete rot of the world brought into painfully pure beauties as the greys argue for importance and high scaled beauty... it is most weary trying to decide and figure them all out...
i will not stand alone in a fight against injustice. your injustice is not my injustice, but all injustices are one when the world stands together so we can fight together rather than against each other...
someone once told me, quoting a favorite movie of theirs, that destruction is a form of creation. nay, says i. destruction is not creation, but art. destruction is not only art but beauty. destruction is destruction and creation is of different roots. destruction can bring about creation, but they are not the same. this i am sure of...
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| me and former flyer chris mcallister |
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