I Know I Am Making

I Believe That Every Human Being Is Potentially Capable Within His 'limits' Of Fully 'realizing' His Potentialities; That This, His Being Cheated And Choked Of It, Is Infinitely The Ghastliest, Commonest, And Most Inclusive Of All The Crimes Of Which The Human World Can Assure Itself.

Children, Taught Either Years Beneath Their Intelligence Or Miles Wide Of Relevance To It, Or Both: Their Intelligence Becomes Hopelessly Bewildered, Drawn Off Its Centers, Bored, Or Atrophied.

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.

Just Spunk Won't Be Enough; You've Got To Have Gumption.

A Mother Never Realizes That Her Children Are No Longer Children.