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About

"Hi, I'm Nick. This is my blog, the endless stream of consciousness that always seems to be falling out of my mind. I think a lot, and I believe that my posts are pretty deep. Thanks for reading."

Tell the moon to come...

So, I got Ferris. The father. Not exactly what I was expecting, but I'm happy nonetheless.

The fair started... bleh. I hate it. I wish I didn't have to be there every day. It's a waste of time. I would much rather be sitting at home banging my head against the wall. Bleh.

In other news, I've chosen my three favorite poets:
1. Anna Akhmatova
2. Federico Garcia Lorca
3. Wilfred Owen

This poem is by Anna Akhmatova. The imagery in it is brilliant.

It ceased – the voice, inimitable here,
The peer of groves left forever us,
He changed himself into eternal ear...
Into the rain, of that sang more than once.

And all the flowers, that grow under heavens,
Began to flourish – to meet the going death…
But suddenly it got the silent one and saddened –
The planet, bearing the humble name, the Earth.
This one is by Federico Garcia Lorca. His poems are very open to interpretation.

In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.

And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.

(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)

In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.

And at the evening's end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.

Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.



The following poem is by Wilfred Owen. It's probably the most allegorical piece of text I've ever read.

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him, thy son.
Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
Yeah. They're amazing.

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