Pale scent of the blank page, a sheen
Rolling over the crystal of her clear eye, agleam.
In the vicinity of the white canvas lies the power of her will but
Sentinels behind her powder clouds will charge her for the raw deal.
Malign landlord of her soul painted the ceilings in coal, oozing.
As she fights, she sinks. As she fights, she also springs.
The spectral colours of Life are pure
Illusions.
Create the prism that shatters the blank in your within. Refract the colours that you have hatched. It is your element; it is your law.
Disperse. Twist. Contour. Diffract.
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Diaries to Nietzsche
Quotation from Friedrich Nietzsche "He who wrestles long with monsters should beware lest he himself become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Man is not destroyed by suffering, but by the meaning he makes of it."
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Here's a stupid thing: I adore art, but I start to panic whenever I step into a gallery. In the one place I should be at my contented best - surrounded by walls teeming with creative expression - I fall apart. What ought to be an enriching experience, tacitly designed to facilitate the exploration of human empathy and perspective, is for me an overwhelming purgatory of anxiety that compresses me to the point I cannot breathe. At the same time, I experience a sense of extraction, as though my head is being prized open to create a hole so big my sanity could evaporate. Somewhere between these two opposing forces of vice and vortex, I feel myself dissolving in a stream of panic that makes me want to cry; and I feel so daft feeling this way, that all I want to do is run for the hills.
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