Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.
Sacred-thoughts flashes in your mind at sacred-time. If you don’t write it immediately, it will be forgotten.
His (Samuel Coleridge) dark senses were constantly in play, the frustration of them bringing illness. Weather and organic nature combined in a synaesthetic multi-media event, and this was the ground of all perception before it was divded up in daily living: the Primary Imagination giving way to the Secondary. Poetry was forever seeking a conscious return to this state, which existed all the time, whether he knew it or not.
Of course, the self-righteous demand and expectation for love, and exactly how it should be expressed, is not the most streamlined method for producing it in another for you. That is, it does not compel or create the love itself. You’re neither loving nor producing that which would compel the love toward you. You’re compressed between them both and incapable of accepting either. And rightly so. Which then accelerates the accumulating suffering.
The ones with no imagination are always the quickest to justify themselves
You don’t read to exercise the mind but to take voyages
Knowledge dilutes imagination.
If knowledge is lacking, your destruction is inevitable.
… people made the imaginary real all the time: taking the music they heard in their head and recording it, seeing a house in their imagination and building it. Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.
This didn’t sound good. It sounded like the optimism was escaping from him.