Kahlil Gibran, the Arab mystic poet, has been one of the most profound influenzes upon my life.
He wrote about longing and belonging, of the pain and suffering of existence, and of love.
He knew that there was a being inside Man that rode the skies with the angels, but that there was also a beast inside of him that was not yet human. And he loved all three of them.
In my days of madness, I would find refuge in the utterences of his 'Madman' and find solace. I can now see that those who understand us, enslave something in us.
In Love, I drew her to me with his words, and her gibberish made me laugh.
He taught me to be at peace with my solitude, and I could finally come to see my place on the earth.
Cautioned me not to measure the strength of the ocean by the fraility of its foam.
He suggested that to see faces, one has to learn to look beneath the fabric that one's own eyes had woven, and behold the reality beneath. I have since come to realize that its a cruel thing to deny people of their deceptions, to try to see the man beneath the mask. I know, now, that the mask is the man.
Bread baked without love feeds but half a man's hunger, and I have tried to be brave enough that my work might indeed be love made visible.
Too bad, he didn't have armies spreading his word. The World would've been so much a better place.
He wrote about longing and belonging, of the pain and suffering of existence, and of love.
He knew that there was a being inside Man that rode the skies with the angels, but that there was also a beast inside of him that was not yet human. And he loved all three of them.
In my days of madness, I would find refuge in the utterences of his 'Madman' and find solace. I can now see that those who understand us, enslave something in us.
In Love, I drew her to me with his words, and her gibberish made me laugh.
He taught me to be at peace with my solitude, and I could finally come to see my place on the earth.
Cautioned me not to measure the strength of the ocean by the fraility of its foam.
He suggested that to see faces, one has to learn to look beneath the fabric that one's own eyes had woven, and behold the reality beneath. I have since come to realize that its a cruel thing to deny people of their deceptions, to try to see the man beneath the mask. I know, now, that the mask is the man.
Bread baked without love feeds but half a man's hunger, and I have tried to be brave enough that my work might indeed be love made visible.
Too bad, he didn't have armies spreading his word. The World would've been so much a better place.
