All children grow up, all but one. His name is Peter and by now, all the civilized world has heard of him. He has captured the public imagination and become a legend, a subject for poets, philosophers and psychologists to write about, and for children to dream of. The children’s tales might be lacking in some details, but on the whole they are more accurate than most other accounts, for children will always understand Peter intuitively, as I did when I first met him. "I shall endeavor to tell you the true story of my friend Peter, because he cannot tell it to you himself. Afterward I hope you will love him and defend him as I have for the remainder of your days. Pass on to others a true account of the wild boy who would not grow up, who danced with kings and won the hearts of princesses. He defied logic and reason, lived and loved with an innocent heart, and found peace in the midst of a turbulent world.
The morning opens, a mist of innocence appears across the countryside that tells each one of us the day is new. That feeling of hope, love and the humble awareness of our duty becomes clear if even for a moment. It is that experience of inspiration that follows us into a small town woken by a cool frost on this Sunday morning and the laughter of children playing.
Have you really read all those books in your room?" She laughed, "Oh God no. I've maybe read a third of 'em. But I'm going to read them all. I call it my Life's Library. Every summer since I was little, I've gone to garage sales and bought all the books that looked interesting. So I always have something to read. But there is so much to do: cigarettes to smoke, sex to have, swings to swing on. I'll have more time for reading when I'm old and boring.
It's such a huge arrogance to love someone, and there's too much of it around. There's too much love in this world. Sometimes I think that's what heavens is-- a place where everybody's happy because nobody loves anybody else, ever.
Sitting on the train I watch the scenery speeding by, notice a cobweb in the top corner of the window, undulating with a gentle breeze I can’t feel. I lean back in my seat and take my book out of the carrier bag. Turning it over in my hand, it feels warm. It feels how I want to feel; full of knowledge, full of the future. The time I’ve spent staying in bed smoking dope I’ve been hibernating, recuperating and gaining strength. I’m weak socially, but being away from other drug users has made me resilient. It’s allowed my mind and body to heal and mend. As if the winter is over, I’ve come out stronger now. I’m on my own. I have the choice of what to do with my life. I’m going to stay clean. I’m going to be the woman I can be.
بالنسبة للعامة فهؤلاء قطيع يتجه كيفما توجهه, إنه بحر زاخر طوع الريح, وحشٌ بلا عقل تسوِّسه فيُطيعك, و الأعمار في هذه الفئة لا قيمة لها, فكلما ضاقت سُبُل العيش, كلما قلت قيمة الحياة, و ذهب عناء الحِرص عليها, و من هنا فلا بأس من اختفاء بعضهم من حينٍ إلى آخر, بطريقة لا يعرفها أحَد و هذا يُرهِب الباقين.
هكذا حال النفوس الرومانسية دائماً , تظل حتى آخر لحظة تزين الناس بريش الطاووس , تظل حتى آخر لحظة تفترض الخير لا الشر, و رغم تصورها وجود الشر فإنها لا يمكنها ان تعترف بذلك لنفسها بأي حال من الأحوال , ان تصور هذا وحده يصدمها و يهزها هزاَ قوياً. فهي بيدها تحجب وجهها حتى لا ترى الحقيقة, إلى ان يأتي الانسانالذي زينته بريش ملون من خيالها فيصفع وجهها و يدمي أنفها بيدع نفسها !
Books, she thought, grew of themselves. She never had time to read them. Alas! even the books that had been given her, and inscribed by the hand of the poet himself: 'For her whose wishes must be obeyed' ... 'The happier Helen of our day' ... disgraceful to say, she had never read them.
Many Germans nowadays say they were not Nazi, and many were not, but they were nearly ALL Party members. It was safer ... and if you were not, you could end up in a ‘camp’ for retraining ... so they mostly all paid ‘lip service’ to the Nazi Party.
The canopy of trees overhead is so thick that only bits and pieces of blue sky can be seen overhead. Narrow rays of sunshine slice their way between the tree branches; slanted silver swords lighting my way.
I recount as this journey begins where I rest to gather the tale from this same old house resting on the hill, leaving me a view of a carnival once seen from just across the tracks. My pallet is dry now. The colors I see no more. The rain has washed away many of the signs that once stood for a prosper home and family. My grave is waiting. The dreams once filled my head with images of world unison, hope and companionship for all. The saga spoken through my canvas drew darker as the years went on to the bitter cold nights. All that comes to me now are glimpses of faces that graced my soul.