"What I want now is to kiss her. I think to myself that anything she wants after that is fine, anything at all, so long as i can kiss her. Madly i kissed her the last time. In the taxi. After whiskey. Whiskey kisses are the best kisses. They are hot and more wet and more urgent and more essence of kiss. This feeling came on suddenly. Longing. This feeling is like a cry, an open-mouthed cry, an O."
What I adore most in people is this mad living, this lively fire that they go against the world itself to satisfy whatever it is that hails them, that strikes out like open fist to breast. Not cntent in any manner to lay down. So splendid in a way yet so foolish, since failure is far greater upon its slamming reproach. Far be it from me to tell one child or another to ever stop imagining themself as a greater being. Imagine a world where everyone simply ceased to dream in life, stopped believing themselves better in any way, forgot to sing to themselves on the long walks home. I can't imagine the world sounding as sweet without the millions of hushed hums of tunes, happy or sad, melancholy or cheerful, triumphant or completely dejected. An odd symphony perhaps, more so than Mahler, but still how would this greening earth in all its change spin the tepid birthing of the thousands. Oh to have that child of light returned.
I remember the time i uponed that quote, though I may have altered it so slightly, but you see it doesn't matter since the idea is the same. That passion, inexplicable in origin and inexorable overall is that which didn't return to consciousness with me except for in ideal. My rather hollow self as is can only imagine and dream of that golden flame, not to say im either better or worse for it, but that I am merely at times jealous, needing almost of something to be passionate for. Man is warrior in more than armored form, with gauntlets of ivy and steel pens fluttering amongst the plumes of ideas.
I am far too jealous of Kerouac and his discovery drawn from such text:
"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..."
Oh, but I am ornamental to this world, a slight flourish on the leather binding that more than seals the tome. If not for me, I think there would be maybe just a small decline in the grandeur, an inappreciation of the cobbled stone paths we all follow in our own due time. But that's merely a mad mad man dreaming chaos and nonsense late in the arctic eve. A metropolis does not love me, nor does any other being perhaps, but what consequence need I fear when all awe-bound and agape at the simplicity of the mechanism, the very corniced pattern so repetitious behind the great stone block walls that compose my fabric mind and breathe. Silk and cotton sheeting so static in folds and treading sway. No clamour can wake the touring soul, all eve hung an starbound, earthly no more it may tilt ever so off the skewed wasted visions of emaciated slung stones. We are chartreuse and silver just fashioned for the calm night sea-skies, to be noted off the gray wavering ordinary.