The Alchemist (a Poem)
Written and edited in 2020
Written and edited in 2020
Speak what you desire. There is no one coming to give you permission to stop being afraid of being known.
Not only is art born from a man’s open heart, Munch says, but is the heart’s blood itself.
I say I believe in signs. I thought they were supposed to be butterflies or angel numbers or something…
A rehabilitation of the fig tree metaphor for anyone who’s ever felt paralyzed by possibility, anyone who’s read ‘The Idiot’ three times, and anyone suspicious of the phrase “dream big.”
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind. Nor hath love’s mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d.”
I find myself craving the simplicity of incoherence, wishing to retreat into a state of brazen, youthful, unapologetic existence, where I am allowed expression without the constraints of language.