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...she walked in through the out door.
The mere word 'freedom' is the only one that still excites me. [...] Among all the many misfortunes to which we are heir, it is only fair to admit that we are allowed the greatest degree of freedom of thought. [...] Imagination alone offers me some intimation of what can be, and this is enough to devote myself to it without fear of making a mistake.
André Breton, Manifesto of Surrealism 1924

Dylan Thomas Writing Shed Laugharne, Wales II.jpg

I believe in the pure joy of the man who [...] sets off from whatever point he chooses, along any other path save a reasonable one, and arrives wherever he can.
André Breton, Manifesto of Surrealism 1924

So do I


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We'll say, that was just another time
One day, we will put it all behind
We'll say, that was just another day on Earth


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When I first caught your eye and you decided to come with me, you were probably thinking you would simply arrive and make yourself at home. Now that you’re actually here, the air is bitterly cold, and you find yourself being led along in complete darkness, stumbling on uneven ground, recognising nothing. [...]
And yet you did not choose me blindly. Certain expectations were aroused. Let’s not be coy: you were hoping I would satisfy all the desires you’re too shy to name, or at least show you a good time. Now you hesitate, still holding on to me, but tempted to let me go. When you first picked me up, you didn’t fully appreciate the size of me, nor did you expect I would grip you so tightly, so fast. Sleet stings your cheeks, sharp little spits of it so cold they feel hot, like fiery cinders in the wind. Your ears begin to hurt. But you’ve allowed yourself to be led astray, and it’s too late to turn back now.
Michel Faber, The Crimson Petal and the White

You live in a world of dreams, you thieved me into it, let me thrive until there was no place left for the real me. At first I didn't realise it, but then I smiled because I'm an experienced escapist myself, and so, at least, we shared realms not rooted to the ground.


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[...] Again and again she hurriedly appeared in the margins of my life, without influencing in the least its basic text. [...] Occasionally, in the middle of a conversation her name would be mentioned, and she would run down the steps of a chance sentence, without turning her head. [...]

And regardless of what happened to me or to her, in between, we never discussed anything, as we never thought of each other during the intervals in our destiny, so that when we met the pace of life altered at once, all its atoms were recombined, and we lived in another, lighter time-medium, which was measured not by the lengthy separations but by those few meetings of which a short, supposedly frivolous life was thus artificially formed. [...]

With an unbearable force, I relived (or so it now seems to me) all that had ever been between us beginning with a similar kiss; and I said (substituting for our cheap, formal “thou” that strangely full and expressive “you” to which the circumnavigator, enriched all around, returns), “Look here—what if I love you?” Nina glanced at me, I repeated those words, I wanted to add . . . but something like a bat passed swiftly across her face, a quick, queer, almost ugly expression, and she, who would utter coarse words with perfect simplicity, became embarrassed; I also felt awkward. . . . “Never mind, I was only joking,” I hastened to say, lightly encircling her waist. From somewhere a firm bouquet of small, dark, unselfishly smelling violets appeared in her hands, and before she returned to her husband and car, we stood for a little while longer by the stone parapet, and our romance was even more hopeless than it had ever been. But the stone was as warm as flesh, and suddenly I understood something I had been seeing without understanding—why a piece of tinfoil had sparkled so on the pavement, why the gleam of a glass had trembled on a tablecloth, why the sea was ashimmer: somehow, by imperceptible degrees, the white sky above Fialta had got saturated with sunshine, and now it was sun-pervaded throughout, and this brimming white radiance grew broader and broader, all dissolved in it, all vanished, all passed [...]
Vladimir Nabokov, Spring in Fialta


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Yes, I was miserable here. But what did I expect? I had brought myself along.
Sebastian Horsley, Dandy in the Underworld

You love the hope you needed desperately
You love to feel alive again
You love to see your vibrant reflection in a mirror
I'm just the water for your drought
I'm just the updraught for your tired wings
I'm just the illusion that age and death might spare you
What you love has to do with me, true
But you don't love me

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And what am I hanging around for /
riddled with what his silence said?
Anne Sexton, Lessons in Hunger

Silence feels like a dead end.
Like a door closed without a sound.
Like the stifled scream of a tell-tale heart.

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All human life has its seasons, and no one’s personal chaos can be permanent: winter, after all does not last forever does it? There is summer, too, and spring, and though sometimes when branches stay dark and the earth cracks with ice, one thinks they will never come, that spring, that summer, but they do, and always.

Truman Capote, Letter to Mary Louise Aswell, 12 July 1946

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What drives me, and will drive me till the end is the search for knowledge, deeper insight & wisdom.


Go ahead


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"Can you keep from crying by considering things?" she asked.
"That's that way it's done," the Queen said with great decision: "nobody can do two things at once, you know.”

Lewis Carroll,
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass

You have to decide, you said.
Dangerous game.
Forced into decision, I often decided against, not for. I deeply mistrust gut feeling, although I know that even the well-thought-out way might as well lead into a direction one later, sometimes too late, wishes to revise.
But life is never a line, it's a labyrinth.

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I was thinking that being a demon and a ghost must be very difficult, even for Charles. If he ever forgot or let his disguise drop for a minute, he would be recognized at once and driven away. He must be extremely careful to use the same voice every time and present the same face and same manor without a slip. He must be constantly on guard against betraying himself. I wondered if he would turn back to his true form when he was dead.
Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle

At least you warn them; tell them that you're half mad, weird. A flight animal. A social mess. A ghost, unreal. Cool, calm & collected on the surface but inside a raging storm, a scary lunatic. They want to love you as you are, oh yes, but aren't they talking of Dr Jekyll, not knowing that it is Mr Hyde they seek? And even IF they love the real you - the one who was told more than 40 years ago she'll end up in an asylum if she doesn't learn to hide her true self better - wouldn't you despise them for their stupidity?

Deborah Sheedy - Series IV.png



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I'm happiest when most away
I can bear my soul from its home of clay
On a windy night when the moon is bright
And the eye can wander through worlds of light

When I am not and none beside -
Nor earth nor sea nor cloudless sky -
But only spirit wandering wide
Through infinite immensity.

Emily Brontë,
poem, 1838

May you enjoy your rich, intense inner world for many many years to come, my friend.


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I am one of millions who do not fit in,
who have no home, no family,
no doctrine, nor firm place to call my own,
no known beginning or end.
I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments,
and forms that appear with infinite strength, then ‘melt into air’.
I am an architect, a constructor of worlds,
a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against the darkening sky.
I cannot know your name. Nor can you know mine.

Lebbeus Woods, Manifesto 1993

The swing my father set up in our garden, one of the few happy memories of my childhood. Flying high in the sky. Bright blue, immaculate white, green leaves the only colours, the light and the air and no sorrows, no boundaries.


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O between distress and pleasure
Fond affection cannot be;
Wretched hearts in vain would treasure
Friendship's joys when others flee.

Well I know thine eye would never
Smile while mine grieved willingly;
Yet I know thine eye for ever
Could not weep in sympathy.

Let us part; the time is over
When I thought and felt like thee;
I will be an ocean rover,
I will sail the desert sea.


Day by day some dreary token
Will forsake thy memory,
Till at last, all old links broken,
I shall be a dream to thee.

Emily Brontë, Song, October 15, 1839


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