Confusion Is Just A State of Mind - Click Goldy

elcome to my home page. Not a particularly embracing statement for someone who has taken the trouble to honour my page but nevertheless understandable. The art of common communication; plain & simple. Yet, this technical pursuit alienates us from the ‘hands-on’ discovery of this germinating organism we call a planet. Do not get me wrong. The intrinsic nature of the planet is not bad. The wanton destruction, in the name of progress is , however, antithetical to the word civilisation. Lets bury apathy and promote harmony based on change, respect and love. I get intoxicated on alcohol but ‘real intoxication’ is the excitement of igniting the dormant seeds of passion that’s inside people.The above sentiments are my own but they are not a million miles away from the thoughts and philosophy of Shelley.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned--
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround--
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,—
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Shelley or 'Mad' shelley to his contemporaries was constantly reminded of death. As a child he exacerbated his oddities with acts of non conformity and events like the time he passed electric currents through his sisters chilblains to cure them. The social change that surrounded him and the inquistive natural torrents he exhibited were a desperate urge to challenge the norm. Whatever personna he
projected was the utilisation of his internal compulsions. Indeed, in the words of Plato (from ION) we find-:

"...there is a form of possession or madness, of which the muses are the source. This seizes a tender, virgin soul and
stimulates it to rapt passionate expression, especially in Iyric poetry,
glorifying the countless mighty deeds of ancient times for the instruction of posterity. But if any man comes to the gates of poetry without the madness of the muses, persuaded that skill alone will make him a good poet, then shall he and is works of sanity with him be brought to nought by the poetry of madness......for the craft of poetry is light and winged and holy, and he is not capable of poetry until he is inspired by the gods and out of his mind and there is no reason in him, Until he gets into this state, any man is powerless to produce poetry and to prophesy"

My Favourite Shelley Poems-: