What angels invented these splendid ornaments, these rich conveniences, this ocean of air above, this ocean of water beneath, this firmament of earth between? this zodiac of lights, this tent of dropping clouds, this striped coat of climates, this fourfold year?
(Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), U.S. essayist, poet, philosopher. Nature, ch. 2 (1836, revised and repr. 1849).)
Poetry, as I opine, is a toddling of a lad, a walking of a man, and a wandering of a shark in the ocean of an unusual arrangement of one's thought on the back of his mind, tongue, and before then sometimes, his laid words like a sign of passion on a dimpled night.
'I searched the highest mountain and the bottom of the ocean for fragments of me that had been casted aside, to no avail. The harder I searched, the more I became isolated from self and filled with despair. That's when I realized, the fragments of me also need to be heard, and that our healing was in different stages, which caused great chaos within. That viewing them as a curse instead of a system of survival would not help the healing process, that acceptance, patience and gentleness were the essentials for healing to begin and that in time we'd heal as a whole.'
(Mental Health, Dissociative Identity Disorder, PTSD, Fragments, Healing from Trauma, New Beginnings.)