love with this I: not I as a person, but as a landscape of possibilities. Helplessly, hopelessly, out of inner necessity, there is the love--and whose, if not the source od what happens? In dreams (rarely) i remember i was such a one, a violent force of becoming; i followed after the self that incarnated all forms, all reasons, all feelings, and all potentials, individualized, each a world... and knew never would i catch up with myself as i really am... though by waking i would, and die... I did, and nothing remains but Beauty. How to explain this sort of dream,except by saying it is a metaphor for the advent (perpetual) of consciousness? Ah, i have no metaphors more than this one, nor any for it. Real life infatuation is a result of trying to find one. The desert comes from not even having Beauty in your dreams, from not being loved by it.
What gulls us most of all is having to take sides when it was only a matter of an incoherent lie succeeding a coherent one.
“ ‘It is not a bad thing to hear voices,’ said Krag, ‘but you mustn’t for a minute imagine that all is wise that comes to you out of the night-world.’ “ --David Lindsay, A Voyage to Arcturus (1920)
