that cut like the black swords. It was the black night of our soul and my tongue was cut in two – one for me and one for him. We were the misfits forming a long snake with a black tongue that whispered the mistruths of life.
I can go on like this forever, forming phrases about “black”. To be true, that night he whispered to me Uriah Heep’s “Lady in black”.
“She came to me one morning, one lonely Sunday morning
Her long hair flowing in the mid-winter wind
I know not how she found me, for in darkness I was walking
And destruction lay around me, from a fight I could not win.”
Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. Just be grateful it happens in that order. Ah, the power to see the good side of everything…
Yes, we are all mortals here, at least from our knowledge most of us are. Even Shakespeare has been thrown dirt in his face.
Well, it’s not quite a confession,
but it’s something about an addiction. A good one, I may say. De Quincey wrote in his autobiographical book “Confessions of an English Opium-Eater” about his laudanum addiction. At a point he mentions that painters are not very fond of white country houses, except they are stained by the passing of time. I’m addicted to all the things that mark the passing of time: clouds, shadows on the floors, the sound made by the wall clocks to mark the passing of hours, the seasons, people’s physical traits and their change and the way men and women dress over the years.
Why I say it’s a good addiction? Because it has to do with happiness and serenity. It’s about receiving with love what the nature and the world is offering to all of us.