danny

i’d say: happiness doesn’t write of itself. is like photography, for me.

there is one way to take a picture, and it is, proverbially, “being outside”: you can only photograph what you’re not part of.

happiness does not photograph itself because it draws you in. sadness, loneliness, despair, in its displacement, opens a keen eye, and camera in hand, we start shooting.

in every picture there are two things present: a memorable moment, and the absence of it. and the longing, in a way.

i’m driven here by desire, as many times before, as ever i might argue if you courage a debate.

why? it would be the first question. why, i will respond the first.

simple: it is nothing but desire that draws us to what we want, and nothing but despair, came from betray or not, that draws us back to reason. but reason cannot come alive from despair, hence prose has to mediate. it is this prose, the manifest of lost paradise that has driven bards, for centuries, into prose and rhyme, as there are two things unavoidable in life: the centripetal love and the centrifugal despair.

and it is the centrifugue forces that push me into the written word, once and again, as the soul would not find rest until the brain does not open the valve of words, and anathema as it might be, saying what is not to be but has been will open, again and for a brief moment, the doors of heaven for someone that, might or might not, deserve it.

as i believe heaven was once mine, for a brief moment, i cross those doors again, pain in hand and heart left behind…