I Have Discovered That My Freedom Is

I Am Not Really A Writer. I Am Just Someone Who Is Haunted, And I Will Write The Hauntings Down.

When Our Thoughts Revolve We Are So Often Deceived Into Supposing That Their Violent Movement Is An Indication Of Their Vigorous Originality, The Upheaval Of Prejudice And Fixed Ideas, When All The Time It Is More Likely That The Machine Which Contains Them Is Only An Elaborate Cement-mixer, And When The Thinking Is Finished, Those Whirling Thoughts Are Smoothed Into The Unchanged Conventional Mould And Seeing Them Set Solid Enough To Dance, To Build, To Travel Upon, We Would Never Dream Of Their First Deceit, Of The Hope Once Roused By Their Apparently Violent Reorganisation.

Language, At Least, May Give Up The Secrets Of Life And Death, Leading Us Through The Maze To The Original Word As Monster Or Angel, To The Mournful Place Where We May Meet Job And Hear His Cry, 'how Long Will You Vex My Soul And Break Me In Pieces With Words?

I Inhabited A Territory Of Loneliness Which Resembles The Place Where The Dying Spend Their Time Before Death, And From Where Those Who Do Return, Living, To The World Bring, Inevitably, A Unique Point Of View That Is A Nightmare, A Treasure, And A Lifelong Possession.[it Is] Equal In Its Rapture And Chilling Exposure [to] The Neighbourhood Of The Ancient Gods And Goddesses.

[...] A Morass Of Despair Violence Death With A Thin Layer Of Glass Spread Upon The Surface Where Love, A Tiny Crab With Pincers And Rainbow Shell, Walked Delicately Ever Sideways But Getting Nowhere, While The Sun [...] Rose Higher In The Sky Its Tassels Dropping With Flame Threatening Every Moment To Melt The Precarious Highway Of Glass. And The People: Giant Pathworks Of Colour With Limbs Missing And Parts Of Their Mind Snipped Off To Fit Them Into The Outline Of The Free Pattern.