Art is a journey into the most unknown thing of all - oneself. Nobody knows his own frontiers… I don’t think I’d ever want to take a road if I knew where it led.
Louis Kahan
Louis Kahan
Somewhere unwritten poems wait, like lonely lakes not seen by anyone.
Tu fui, ego eris.
I was you—you will be me.
Czechowicz paraphrased it brilliantly:
‘I was what you are
I am what you will be.’
I was you—you will be me.
Czechowicz paraphrased it brilliantly:
‘I was what you are
I am what you will be.’
I received the grace of shadows. The grace of remaining in the dark.
during the sleepless hours of the night a thought came to me that seemed important. i got up in the dark and wrote it down. in the morning i read: “i went looking for loneliness. but it found me.
I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.
Poems crystallize from the substance of time. A cluster of moments, like bees dangling from the hive’s mouth.
