green day.

someday

comiendome el sol.

Oh!

There is pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

-Lord Byron

Love

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

Neil Gaiman.

Morpheus dice

Beyond, outside my Dreamworld there is infinite dust, infinite dark. And the Dreamworld is infinite although it is bounded on every side. The way to the center is a slow spiral. One passes the houses of mystery and secrets... old way stations on the frontiers of nightmare. From there one charts a course nightward until one reaches the Gates of Horn and Ivory. I carved them myself, when the world was younger, and order was needed. I hasten to the Gates.

Tronco.

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a
green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and
deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of the
man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.

William Blake, 1799, The Letters

a lack of color

Judy And The Dream Of Horses

Walking the street from morning to night
With a star upon your shoulder lighting up the path that you walk
With a parrot on your shoulder, saying everything when you talk
If you're ever feeling blue
Then write another song about your dream of horses
Write a song about your dream of horses...

hope.

OPE Was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.




She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!




Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease.




False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;




Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!




Emily Brontë

green

Are you green and growing or ripe and rotting?