What’s me? Me is that which want to be amazed without natural cessation,
in an eternity of ecstasy.
Rules? Laws? To me, what?
I am free to want what I want.
I want uninterrupted rapture. I believe this has been made manifest to me in dreams, and in music, and in the pages of Dostoevsky, in the lines of Shakespeare, in sexual joy, in drunkenness, in being high on tea. Why should I compromise with anything else or with the “Bourgeois” calm of the backyard lawn, The Edgar Guest concession wild, wild happiness.
On tea I have seen the light. In my youth I saw the light. In my childhood I bathed in the hints of light; I hankered, eager.
I want a blaze of light to flame in me forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. And why should I pretend to want anything else? After all, I’m no cabbage, no carrot, no stem! a burning eye! a mind of fire! a broken goldenrod! a man! a woman! a SOUL!
Fuck the rest, I say, and PROCEED!
(This is what I want to write, not stylistic crap!)
Jack Kerouac, in Windblown World, the Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954