He’s back and seems better…
Everything cool has been ruined, was before we got here.the jittering red light, the fingers that held the pen tight, words that went down the drain, silence all around and darkness in vain.Two world famous beats…too old and tiring beats.
The artistry has already happened, and the music has been heard before.ask me what to do now.did the sea shells make it to the shore? drowned the Sun and so did I.dragged away deep into the sky.
I went there…how I know not
Things weren’t that great.
I tried to let go…nothing to hold on
to; I couldn’t try and fell on
dragging feet; much crushed wrappers
torn pages and scribbled pieces of papers
wiped cheeks; ticking clocks didn’t matter
dawned the sunset anew and I turned chipper
I am here…how I know not
tomorrow where will I be at
To reach there, forget
To reach there, remember
For me to tell..
I wish you had stayed longer.I need you not.What I thought,I understand not.You were, therefore I was.
You left, to return.I am, therefore you were.I leave, to return.I wish to never part you.But only the parting meets us together.I wish I could find someone to tell, separation brings us together.
Unlike day and night, words and wishes,we are.Find us missus before it vanishes.Why don’t you cry? my lady.Forgive me, I forget, you are not a miss and you left.Mad, I feel like a limping pet.
Rock and roll gone like a rainbow, someone said it was round.Hand me my cross bow, I know where to hit and tell a story for you to dream.There I’m gone without meaning to sell. I wish I left it in my mind.Stranger, see that it is not since I gave it to you I wish I was beside but I cannot.
One doesn’t understand that knowing everything has got nothing to do with loving you.I don’t belong to her.God was once a dog owned by my lady.Forsaken, the world was made hell.You are too fast but I’m not there, I’m gone.
What do I look for when I read something? What makes me feel good about the book? Not just a book, a movie, a painting, a drawing..anything that is a work of emotion..What about it makes me think about it? What makes a lasting impression on a work? Feel something about it..
What should be considered right and what not?
Isn’t literature a medium to just express? Why do people write? Is it for the others or themselves?
To criticize others, to make others happy, to make people understand them, to know about people who agree with them, to tell the others that they are un-understandable…or just because I wanted to write.
Kafka wrote for whom? T.S.Elliot thought people would be able to understand him? I am thinking linearly? How am I supposed to know how to think about a certain literature? Should I take all those conditions into consideration to understand it? Is it just for the people of that time?
What makes a literary work great, for that matter any work?
How to judge it? Based on what?
Who is to judge it? How much read should I be?
When should it be judged? After my death?