Ad ogni pazzo piace il suon del suo sonaglio. But what is life? Is it merely sitting in the corner of a young girl's bed, forever trapped in a world of soft fluff and barely seeing the sun outside? To hear the voices of her and her friends, yet forced to stay silent yourself, mouth sewn shut and eyes buttoned close? To be unable to lift your arms or run under your own power, for you lack the bones and the muscles and the tissue. Instead all that you have is cotton and fabric, made so that you resemble a hideous creation of mankind's eldritch nightmares that plague them in their sleep? And what of the poor doll, forever unchanging, body at the mercy of God's nature and the passing of eons, fated to be an object until wear and tear that this life, akin to blight, inflicts upon us all? Is she to scream for hours upon hours, days upon days, years upon years, even though her mouth is forever shut? Or is she the only true existence in this cruel, sadistic world, and it is all the rest who are the toys and puppets, dancing to the tune of the invisible celestial toymaker we know nothing of? Ah... Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle, E questa siepe, che da tanta parte, Dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude. Ma sedendo e rimirando, interminati, Spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani, Silenzi, e profondissima quietelo nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco, Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento, Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello, Infinito silenzio a questa voce, Vo comparando: e mi sovvien l’eterno, E le morte stagioni, e la presente, E viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa, Immensità s’annega il pensier mio: E il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare.
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Originally Posted by Inacio
