Dear readers, those who may happen upon my random blog,
I am in the process, regardless of the obvious fact that it is almost 3 in the morning, reading, no, rather devouring Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. A book which I always meant to read. Frankenstein was actually on my list of books to read. A couple of years ago I became fascinated with the origins of the famous fictional monsters of history. Bram Stoker's Dracula was my first endevour, and having an above average reading level, and the intense love and desire to read difficult literature, I loved every second of it. The differences that society, and especially cinema, have changed these monsters (whether making them "scarier" [usually by taking away the humanity so devoted in the originals] or humbling them to leave out some of the more gruesome details) entranced me and quickly moved to Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I must note here that my criticism of the media is not to be taken too greatly as I must admit I avidly enjoyed the 1992 film "Bram Stoker's Dracula" especially for it's attention to detail to the original novel (a lack of attention to movies inpsired by books being one of my worst pet peeves). I mostly refer to the popular depictions of said monsters. However, I babble. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was close to the most exciting work of fiction for such a short narrative (with Of Mice and Men coming in close second). However, soon after my finishing the latter novel, I became entranced with some other humor of the arts and nearly forgot my former passion.
While at Borders, I was unsuccessful in aquiring a book which fancied my current taste (which ranged from Zorro by Isabel Allende to Secrets in the Shadows by VC Andrews). However, as if by fate, I discovered a copy of Frankenstein lying on one of the "School Books" displays (my most avid source of classics) and immedietly was drawn to buy it. It had sat in my room awaiting my attention for almost a week when, while frustrated at my slowness in reading legitamite Spanish literature (in Spanish), I opened Mary Shelley's classic.
I am merely on Chapter 2 and I am already filled with such enthusiasm and pure splendor that I immediately had to reflect on my feelings,the history of one of the periods of my literary life an aftermath of excitement which I find fills my blogs regularly. However, all of this is mostly to express my own excitement as well as to excite the mind of any who care to listen and who may have a love of literature similar to my own.
After all of that, I am excited also to say that in a strange lull of today's enlightened state, I have written a poem. The seeming dark tone of the poem is one that, although not so revealed so far in this blog, is commonplace in most of my poetry. I wish to express to the audience of my poetry that my deepest wish is to distance myself from the terrible description of "angst". Depressing imagery or content to me is simply a mould through which my current mindset must sculpt my art. I believe, however, that with close inspection to this poem in specific, the overall tone becomes one of hope, not despair.
I am afraid to think.
Even now the looming ghostly shadows
of my mind prepare their assault.
To sleep, oh to sleep I must wrap my thoughts
(kindly at first, then insistant)
And send them in a balloon
Till they reach those beautiful
edges of sight, sound, and attention
(that percieved humble abode of the Archangel Lucifer
O morning star, son of the dawn!)
which some nights yeild to bountiful dreams.
And in a dream the curtain of sanity may be lifted,
nay, must be lifted,
and the infinite expanse of the imagination,
symbolic, profound, and yet deeply confusing,
alights and sparks the unity and wholeness
fallen from heaven.
O Wisdom of my heart,
seek not death in the error of your life
I pray but this:
Let my life be a dream.
Note: This poem is brand new and even in the transcribing of the text went through various editing.
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