Surreal Romanticism

Creation from Nothingness.

The imagination is not a state:
it is the human existence itself.

—William Blake  (via rabbitinthemoon)


How foolish his aim had been!  He had tried to build a breakwater of order and elegance against the sordid tide of life without him and to dam up, by rules of conduct and active interests and new filial relations, the powerful recurrence of the tide within him.  Useless.  From without as from within the water had flowed over his barriers: their tides began once more to jostle fiercely above the crumbled mole.

-James Joyce, “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

—Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (via knight-liluori)


There’s a hole where my heart should be

where once one rested

but was benumbed

where rests my hand, a top, 

to hide what should be.

There’s a hole where my heart should be

that wants to be

so I fill it with empty promises and 

even emptier dreams, and though 

she lays so close

she feels far away.

There’s a hole where my heart should be

where once one rested

but was pierced

and no matter how hard I try

never is full or half empty

and that will never warm

and I can never feel 


There’s a hole where my heart should be

where rests my hand, a top

our secret, that only I keep

but that I can never tell

you, or her, or they

and sometimes

I raise my hand, but just a little

to see the void beneath

and in this 

hollow feeling

you feel so close

as you lay

so far



"Song," by Allen Ginsberg, 1954.


The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction

the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
a miracle,
in imagination
till born
in human—
looks out of the heart

There is no God and we are his prophets.

—Cormac McCarthy, ‘The Road’ (via xdisappearherex)