[froggo]

I'm caught up in these fantasies where I imagine doom to be the only salvation from this world. For what is there in this world for me to see but endless horrors and oppressions?
O, if I could be mediocre! There is a chinese curse I've heard tell of; "may you lead an interesting life!"
How is it that when once eyes are so focused on injustice that they could ever again be lulled to a tranquilled blankened gaze?

Here is what Rimbaud has to say;

A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.

One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.

I armed myself against justice.

I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you!

I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.

I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.

And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.

So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.

Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!

"You'll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!"

Ah! I've been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.

Was Rimbaud right to go off on his quest supplying arms for gold?
Are we to give up on the realizations of our dooms?

But then again, here is what D.H. Lawrence has to say;

Well, all right then, if I AM finally a sort of human bomb, black inside, and primed; I hope the hour and the place will come for my going off: for my exploding with the maximum amount of havoc. SOME men have to be bombs, to explode and make breaches in the walls that shut life in. Blind, havoc-working bombs too. Then so be it

I'm confused.
So confused.
Here is what Derek Jensen has to say;

Every morning I wake up and I think, Should I blow up a bridge, or should I write about blowing up bridges?

[Potemkin]

Every morning I wake up and I think, Should I blow up a bridge, or should I write about blowing up bridges?

Definitely only write about blowing up bridges - you're less likely to get arrested that way.