
Author: TF

Sunday Morning in San Francisco
Wake up,
Watch the market traders set up their stalls,
The homeless stirring in their sleeping bags,
Another rough night.
Their world forgotten.
Hopeful endeavours and broken souls.
TF
Sometimes you find a place,
A quiet recess of the world.
And wonder:
Why isn’t everyone here?
This is where it’s at.
TF
Melt into the mountains,
Dissolve into the stars,
Soar into infinite is-ness,
For you are all that you are.

“If it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
If you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.”
– Charles Bukowski

Kierkegaard:
‘…the most common despair is to be in despair at not choosing, or willing, to be oneself; but that the deepest form of despair is to choose to be another than himself. On the other hand to will to be that self which one truly is, is indeed the opposite of despair, and this choice is the deepest responsibility of man.’
(Excerpt from ‘On Becoming a Person’ by Carl Rogers)
Striving to be sensible on the surface,
But infected with insanity of own causing,
Running away from a repressed past,
Crashing into a former self.

