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x "ART IS NOT A MIRROR IT IS NOT A HAMMER IT IS NOT" xThis entry is not under construction at all. For the record, I stand by absolutely everything I was going to say in it.
This diary is redundant. It will not, barring Acts of God or a supreme about-face on my part, be updated. There reaches a point where one can no longer retain this haze of life, this half-hearted struggling on. The wilderness of language and longing becomes a junction, and on one side is NO, and on the other is YES. This particular format is a motivation and justification for standing quite still and describing the surroundings and the memories they trigger. And however eloquent that description may be, one is quite clearly not moving in any direction at all. If one is to do away with the blankets of words, the comforts of exposure, the illusions of fact – if one is to throw aside all of that, the only thing left is that dichotomy:
NO. YES.
The choice is yours.
And there is a choice.
(and thankyou for listening - NP x)
=
I would like to write poetry that destroyed the memory. The allure of idealism is that it offers a defence of the bourgeois ghetto. The danger of it is that, after even the briefest of relationships, it grows jealous and takes to stalking one through the streets and bedrooms of the city. It whispers in one's ear, and asks one to remember.
By dealing exclusively in the immaterial, idealism offers nothing with which one might fight in the physical world. It gives one otherworldy heartaches, regrets, love-letters. Foregoing weapons, it grants one comfort, and ensures that one will always be in need of it.
" - Love, Nicholas Passant x6th November 2001
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