The Road Less Travelled

This feeling whilst asleep, whilst awake,

You're beginning to wonder just how much you can take.

Disillusioned, broken down,

Heading down that path with the possibility of not turning around.

‘At least’, you say,’ It’s finally coming into the light’

What was once lurking in the shadows is now in plain sight.

So now that’s it clear

You ask, ‘Where do I go from here?’

‘The possibilities are infinite dear...…absolutely anywhere’

~Charlie 

     

"Medicine is my lawful wife and literature is my mistress" - Anton Chekhov

The 8 qualities of cultured people (according to Anton Chekhov)

They respect human personality, and therefore they are always kind, gentle, polite, and ready to give in to others. They do not make a row because of a hammer or a lost piece of india-rubber; if they live with anyone they do not regard it as a favour and, going away, they do not say “nobody can live with you.” They forgive noise and cold and dried-up meat and witticisms and the presence of strangers in their homes.

They have sympathy not for beggars and cats alone. Their heart aches for what the eye does not see…. They sit up at night in order to help P…., to pay for brothers at the University, and to buy clothes for their mother.

They respect the property of others, and therefor pay their debts.

They are sincere, and dread lying like fire. They don’t lie even in small things. A lie is insulting to the listener and puts him in a lower position in the eyes of the speaker. They do not pose, they behave in the street as they do at home, they do not show off before their humbler comrades. They are not given to babbling and forcing their uninvited confidences on others. Out of respect for other people’s ears they more often keep silent than talk.

They do not disparage themselves to rouse compassion. They do not play on the strings of other people’s hearts so that they may sigh and make much of them. They do not say “I am misunderstood,” or “I have become second-rate,” because all this is striving after cheap effect, is vulgar, stale, false….

They have no shallow vanity. They do not care for such false diamonds as knowing celebrities, shaking hands with the drunken P.,  listening to the raptures of a stray spectator in a picture show, being renowned in the taverns…. If they do a pennyworth they do not strut about as though they had done a hundred roubles’ worth, and do not brag of having the entry where others are not admitted…. The truly talented always keep in obscurity among the crowd, as far as possible from advertisement…. Even Krylov has said that an empty barrel echoes more loudly than a full one.

If they have a talent they respect it. They sacrifice to it rest, women, wine, vanity…. They are proud of their talent…. Besides, they are fastidious.

They develop the aesthetic feeling in themselves. They cannot go to sleep in their clothes, see cracks full of bugs on the walls, breathe bad air, walk on a floor that has been spat upon, cook their meals over an oil stove. They seek as far as possible to restrain and ennoble the sexual instinct…. What they want in a woman is not a bed-fellow … They do not ask for the cleverness which shows itself in continual lying. They want especially, if they are artists, freshness, elegance, humanity, the capacity for motherhood…. They do not swill vodka at all hours of the day and night, do not sniff at cupboards, for they are not pigs and know they are not. They drink only when they are free, on occasion…. For they wantmens sana in corpore sano [a healthy mind in a healthy body].

The Invisible Fortress

It’s a simple pleasure missed,

Something only the lucky few ever obtain;

Spiritual bliss.

To find this, ironically can be maddening,

Yet, not seeking it would cause a most violent affair.

An internal struggle between the duality of mind and soul,

‘What is my purpose? Is it to be daring and bold?’

Searching amongst the stars for an answer, yet limited by the perception of mind.

Oh what it would be like,

To be a traveler of both space and time.

Spiritual bliss,

The Universe in you, and you in it,

Drunk off its galactic wine.

The portals opened ever expanding,

Waiting ever so patiently for you to dine.

The answers to some may ever be so clear,

But upon musings, clarity of such just brings tumultuous fear.

Can one ever really drink the Universe and its ale

And still think that what of they know to be real?

My mind is ever fuller of questions than answers,

That of which I am content.

For I feel that if I knew the answers (if ever there were),

I’d feel as though my existence would be blurred.

So I sit and I ponder and rhyme,

Whilst the Universe

Beckons

“I’m waiting for you to dine.’’

Charlie :)