Surrealism

October 15, 2013
By Kaitia SILVER, New Canaan, Connecticut
Kaitia SILVER, New Canaan, Connecticut
5 articles 1 photo 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
“We are the people of the book. We love our books. We fill our houses with books. We treasure books we inherit from our parents, and we cherish the idea of passing those books on to our children. Indeed, how many of us started reading with a beloved book that belonged to one of our parents? We force worthy books on our friends, and we insist that they read them. We even feel a weird kinship for the people we see on buses or airplanes reading our books, the books that we claim. If anyone tries to take away our books—some oppressive government, some censor gone off the rails—we would defend them with everything that we have. We know our tribespeople when we visit their homes because every wall is lined with books. There are teetering piles of books beside the bed and on the floor; there are masses of swollen paperbacks in the bathroom. Our books are us. They are our outboard memory banks and they contain the moral, intellectual, and imaginative influences that make us the people we are today.”
― Cory Doctorow

"The heart wants what it wants. There's no logic to those things. You meet someone and you fall in love and that's that."-Woody Allen

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view - until you climb into his skin and walk around in it"-To Kill A Mockingbird

"We all live with the objective of being happy; our lives are all different and yet the same."-Anne Frank

"Art hurts. Art urges voyages - and it is easier to stay at home"-Gwendolyn Brooks


Her seams were painted
with the petals of the peonies
that laid delicate and lifeless in her bedroom

Her eyes appeared bruised
by cobalt shadows to those who had just met her,
those unacquainted with her eccentricity
and her hair that framed her rosy cheeked face

Never was there a day she would not hope for rain
because she knew it was intended for dancing in
and that if you chanted French lyrics under your breathe
it felt like you were in Paris and in love with someone who was good to you

She had fragile knees and skin like buttermilk
and she fought permanence but desired nothing fleeting
when she drank blueberry tea her nose would twitch

She spent hours from behind the apartment window
taking occasional bites from Chinese takeout
and created elaborate nonexistent sequences for each sidewalk character

Some days she would
let her limbs burn
from the dew left on
the grass of the park
at midnight

But no matter the dreams she kept of webbed skies and stars
and floating to another place with filtered light through tree leaves
and the sounds of a crackling record playing her mother’s favorite song

She would continue to walk
on the line between
reality and a place hidden between the maples
that only she would not acknowledge
ceased to exist



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