Reverie Is Not A Mind

I Am A Dreamer Of Words, Of Written Words. I Think I Am Reading; A Word Stops Me. I Leave The Page. The Syllables Of The Word Begin To Move Around. Stressed Accents Begin To Invert. The Word Abandons Its Meaning Like An Overload Which Is Too Heavy And Prevents Dreaming. Then Words Take On Other Meanings As If They Had The Right To Be Young. And The Words Wander Away, Looking In The Nooks And Crannies Of Vocabulary For New Company, Bad Company.

It Is Through The Intentionality Of Poetic Imagination That The Poet's Soul Discovers The Opening Of Consciousness Common To All True Poetry.

Words Are Clamor-filled Shells. There's Many A Story In The Miniature Of A Single Word!

We Comfort Ourselves By Reliving Memories Of Protection. Something Closed Must Retain Our Memories, While Leaving Them Their Original Value As Images. Memories Of The Outside World Will Never Have The Same Tonality As Those Of Home And, By Recalling These Memories, We Add To Our Store Of Dreams; We Are Never Real Historians, But Always Near Poets, And Our Emotion Is Perhaps Nothing But An Expression Of A Poetry That Was Lost.

Nobody Knows That In Reading We Are Re-living Our Temptations To Be A Poet. All Readers Who Have A Certain Passion For Reading, Nurture And Repress, Through Reading, The Desire To Become A Writer.