My head is in the oven, face down
on the metal grills, lips kissing
the burning iron, glowing vermillion.
Quickly the air begins to hiss, my skin peels
exposing the secrets it hides, my mouth now open
without my consent. Sweat, tears, fluids unnamed;
fat and flesh; meat and muscle;
(This is the only way to inspect my bones, to see
whether they are a pristine white, as I hope
they are, or tarnished with an inborn stain.)
The smoke billows out of these four embered walls,
the sweet stench rising out through the chimney
escaping into the clouds.
(My skull is not as bad as I feared.)
I lift my lids and all is born again,
I think I made you up inside my head.
- Mad Girl’s Love Song, Sylvia Plath
I mourn for the courage that came with my youth. Reckless and beautiful and unaware.
Maingat kong inaral
ang ‘yong bawat kaliwa’t kanan,
bawat samu’t saring
ng mapang akala ko’y patungo
sa ‘yong tahanan.
Ngayo’y isa-isa kong pilit
nililimot ang mga pangalan
ng kalye’t daanan
upang sa wakas
ako nama’y tumahan.
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’”
-Jack Kerouac, “On the Road”
Randomly decided to pick up Kerouac’s book the other day. Read it on the way to work this morning, and this line - wow. I literally had to stop and think about it. Then read it over and over again.
Do not stifle art because you believe that your interpretation of it is the truth.
I have been taught since I was young that God gave us all free will, with one rule above all: to love one another. I suggest you all do the same.