The Very Thing I Live For


How can I deceive the very thing I live for?  (writing)


I love life more dearly, yes, more dearly [than] my

strange, dark

self, which I yet do not understand.  Who am I? I can’t


am a stranger to myself:  I emerged in birth into a

strange, gray

world, and my child self was full of wonder…

You may wander west across the plains, across the

mountains into

the dry Nevadas, you may journey south to the sultry

Gulf, or

north to the dark pines…wherever you go, seek the

deepest, darkest

forest and steal into its most secluded and innermost

glade, and

there you’ll find a heavy rock mouldy and dark and green

in the

green, green shade, and when you turn it over, and the

crow caws

from his secret branch, and the forest echoes and echoes,


the elfin deer peeps over from a hidden brook, and the

owl ruffles

his feathers in the cool shade by the virgin well, and the

tall pines

sway pointing at the passing high clouds, and from far off


hear once more the caw of the crow, yes, when you turn

over this

rock, there you’ll find my heart…

When I see you and your beauty, yes, your youthful,

laughing beauty,

my heart stirs the heavy green rock and once more I see

a field

of violets in the May breeze and I want to go out with the


and sing by the waterfalls…

~Jack Kerouac~


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