We are many.

Of the many men who I am, who we are,
I can't find a single one;
they disappear among my clothes,
they've left for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as intelligent,
the fool I always keep hidden
takes over all that I say.

At other times, I'm asleep
among distinguished people,
and when I look for my brave self,
a coward unknown to me
rushes to cover my skeleton
with a thousand fine excuses.

When a decent house catches fire,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and that's me. What can I do?
What can I do to distinguish myself?
How can I pull myself together?

All the books I read
are full of dazzling heroes,
always sure of themselves.
I die with envy of them;
and in films full of wind and bullets,
I goggle at the cowboys,
I even admire the horses.

But when I call for a hero,
out comes my lazy old self;
so I never know who I am,
nor how many I am or will be.
I'd love to be able to touch a bell
and summon the real me,
because if I really need myself,
I mustn't disappear.

While I am writing, I'm far away;
and when I come back, I've gone.
I would like to know if others
go through the same things that I do,
have as many selves as I have,
and see themselves similarly;
and when I've exhausted this problem,
I'm going to study so hard
that when I explain myself,
I'll be talking geography.

--Pablo Neruda, trans. by Alastair Reid.

orphan child with
one wing of passion, one of resignation,

trying to take off.

What are words but stepping stones between us?

so I went drinkngin tonight and it turns out that I started thingkning about hte important people in my life and my god i loe them al so much. such godo people who deseruve such good thnngs to happen to them.

where twill they be five years form now? nobody really knows but we wil l no doubt try to guess and control deciisona and try to form th efuture according wot what wwe beleive is better for us and them. who knwos what we will want later on, I suppose what is imposrant is what they and we all want now.

It's funny how we change over time and notice what s importnat and what is not, and relaise the traits that ar eimportant in people wwe want t spend our lives with. How do we know this before it's too late? TH poets have thewir ways of saying things and writing and speaking aobut the world but really, what are words when you have feelings...

We were maybe sixteen, bored in class, talking of big things, when he swivelled around in his plastic chair and said,

'Love is a bunch of people standing in a circle, facing each other like dominoes. Everyone's looking towards somebody else.'

It is nightmare season again.

I dream heavy and wake with bruised limbs. The fear is visceral,
the images frenetic and tremulous. Hair and trees,
the ocean's drag, loyalties tested and
the forgotten are resurrected in the twilight land of the living dead.

Swept away,
I drown and fight the sheets.
The next night I succumb gloomily to the cerebral slaughter again,
the war that lasts until sunrise.

One day the sun will fail to wake me, and
I'll creep forever in the world of shadows,
a soul that used to be someone with a dream to live.