I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?
-- Lord Byron, in a letter to Thomas Moore dated from July the 5th, 1821
This is my 500th blog entry since I started in the last month of 2004, never minding the quality of those previous 499...
For a while I entertained the idea of writing this post as a reflective story on how I changed or what I learnt through these almost ten years. That story would provide deep insight into the human nature, or then again it would only raise many a sneer, “Oh, how naïve António has been...”
Though the thought of writing that story was not abandoned completely, I decided to celebrate the 500th post in a lighter tone.
I've been in a long poetic state of late and it'll eventually end one day. While shaving I already cut myself twice. And three large plates and a wineglass tried to make a bloody adventure out of the simple walking on my otherwise dull grey-stone kitchen floor.
As poetry has been in my bloodstream, I think I must wrap it all up with one of my latest creations:
Love is like reading through a stream of Facebook posts.
It'll make you laugh, shed a tear, think deeply, sing a song.
You'll feel an inner wave ranging from sweet to despair.
And the very next day, addicted, you'll do it all over again.
I'm kidding with those who unlike me are addicted to Facebook. On a serious note now, and as the last line of André Breton's Nadja goes:
Beauty will be CONVULSIVE or will not be at all.
