Saturday special

Because teacher solli kudukala?
Sharing.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure,
obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli.

Reality is plywood and plastic,
done up in mud brown and olive drab.

Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves,
rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer.

Reality is beans and tofu,
and ashes at the end.

Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland,
a parking garage in Newark.

Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast,
the halls of Camelot.

Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines.

Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colours again, I think.
To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang.
There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us,
to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night,
and feast beneath the hollow hills,
and find a love to last forever
somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.

– George.R.R.Martin

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Psalm of life

H.W.Longfellow

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

One big machine

 

I’d imagine the whole world was one big machine. Machines never come with any extra parts, you know. They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured, if the entire world was one big machine, I couldn’t be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason, too

The invention of Hugo Cabret
– Brian Selznick.

What’s left to show?

Found this beautiful piece of writing, but couldn’t find out who wrote it. Hope you like it! 🙂

We’re all walking around with these glossy eyes. 

“I am just tired”, we say.

But you know what? It’s bullshit.

Yes, we are tired, but it’s not all from lack of sleep.

We are tired of waking up with nothing to look forward to, tired of going to bed exhausted after doing a million things we find no enjoyment in doing.

We are tired of this void, this emptiness that looms over us even though we’re surrounded by dozens of people.

So why can’t we just say it?

Humans are so afraid to look into each others eyes and say: “I am unhappy, I am broken, I am hopeless and fallible.”

We’ve been conditioned to associate pain with weakness, sadness with coldness, loneliness with unworthiness, difference with disease.

As if these feelings are contagious, as if ambivalence is something not be felt but to be feared.

Well, I say screw all of that.

Screw forced smiles and polite handshakes and “I am fine, thank you” .

Screw the fear of crying in a public place, screw the fake chipper voice, screw the lies we spit out to cover up our problems.

We are human.

We are meant to feel.

To feel everything and to feel it openly. We are not metal – we are flesh and bone.

Our boiled blood courses through our cold, clammy hands. We are intricate and beautiful and we should never hide our human part, because if we do, then what’s left to show?