LIT Literatuur, Taal en Kunst
Boekbesprekingen, vragen over schrijvers, je favoriete theaterstuk, de mooiste schilderijen of de beste musea. Een must voor alle liefhebbers van kunst, boeken, theater en taal.
I Was a Rock Once
🪨 I Was a Rock Once
I was a rock once. Not metaphorically.
I mean actually. Dense. Still.
Pressed deep in the belly of a young, dreaming planet.
I knew nothing of time. I was time.
I cracked open only to close again.
I sat through the birth of mountains and the boredom of ice.
🌿 Then I was a leaf.
Still quiet, but reaching now.
I stretched toward a light I didn’t understand,
and called it “God” in the way only chlorophyll could.
I danced when the wind told me to.
I wept golden in the Fall and never asked why.
🐾 Then I was muscle and claw,
and hunger taught me motion.
Fear taught me speed.
I howled at moons I once slept beneath.
My eyes burned with longing.
My body was a yes to the wild.
🧍Then I walked upright.
I named stars. I named gods.
I built stories out of stone and fire,
forgetting I once was stone and fire.
I worshiped what I didn’t know,
then became what I worshiped,
then doubted it all.
🕊️ And then I remembered.
Not suddenly, but in pulses.
I remembered that the One I sought
had always been pressed into my own skin—
folded into every atom like a cosmic watermark.
🌀 So now I walk again.
But lighter.
Each footstep knows it walks on former selves.
Every breath is a prayer the rock taught me:
Be still. Be whole. Be the One, even in pieces.
🌌 And what comes next?
I do not know.
Perhaps wings, or stars, or silence deeper than form.
Perhaps I’ll return as music, or meaning,
or a breeze that knows your name.
I only know the journey does not end—
it just keeps remembering itself,
in brighter, subtler ways.
And whatever waits beyond this becoming…
feels like home.
🪨 I Was a Rock Once
I was a rock once. Not metaphorically.
I mean actually. Dense. Still.
Pressed deep in the belly of a young, dreaming planet.
I knew nothing of time. I was time.
I cracked open only to close again.
I sat through the birth of mountains and the boredom of ice.
🌿 Then I was a leaf.
Still quiet, but reaching now.
I stretched toward a light I didn’t understand,
and called it “God” in the way only chlorophyll could.
I danced when the wind told me to.
I wept golden in the Fall and never asked why.
🐾 Then I was muscle and claw,
and hunger taught me motion.
Fear taught me speed.
I howled at moons I once slept beneath.
My eyes burned with longing.
My body was a yes to the wild.
🧍Then I walked upright.
I named stars. I named gods.
I built stories out of stone and fire,
forgetting I once was stone and fire.
I worshiped what I didn’t know,
then became what I worshiped,
then doubted it all.
🕊️ And then I remembered.
Not suddenly, but in pulses.
I remembered that the One I sought
had always been pressed into my own skin—
folded into every atom like a cosmic watermark.
🌀 So now I walk again.
But lighter.
Each footstep knows it walks on former selves.
Every breath is a prayer the rock taught me:
Be still. Be whole. Be the One, even in pieces.
🌌 And what comes next?
I do not know.
Perhaps wings, or stars, or silence deeper than form.
Perhaps I’ll return as music, or meaning,
or a breeze that knows your name.
I only know the journey does not end—
it just keeps remembering itself,
in brighter, subtler ways.
And whatever waits beyond this becoming…
feels like home.
O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves
Ze tikken wat zinnen, geen zweet op hun kop
De dichter is dood, lang leve de knop
Geen muze, geen nacht vol doorrookte pijn
Alleen maar een promptje: 'maak het maar fijn'.
De dichter is dood, lang leve de knop
Geen muze, geen nacht vol doorrookte pijn
Alleen maar een promptje: 'maak het maar fijn'.
De dichter dacht
Ik blijf nog even liggen
En hij draaide zich om
In zijn graf
Ik blijf nog even liggen
En hij draaide zich om
In zijn graf
SPOILEROm spoilers te kunnen lezen moet je zijn ingelogd. Je moet je daarvoor eerst gratis Registreren. Ook kun je spoilers niet lezen als je een ban hebt.
[ Bericht 2% gewijzigd door Symphonic op 24-04-2025 20:54:19 ]Juin uit Eigen Tuin!
quote:Op donderdag 24 april 2025 20:29 schreef Symphonic het volgende:
De dichter dacht
Ik blijf nog even liggen
En hij draaide zich om
In zijn grafWat is de kern van de kunst? Op het idee komen? Of het boetseren, schilderen of schrijven? Of beide toch misschien?SPOILEROm spoilers te kunnen lezen moet je zijn ingelogd. Je moet je daarvoor eerst gratis Registreren. Ook kun je spoilers niet lezen als je een ban hebt.
En als je het ene kunt, maar het andere niet? Verdient dat dan een één? Of stiekem toch een tien?
Wat adviseer je mensen die wel tot aan het idee geraken, maar dit niet kunnen schreeuwen van de daken?
Kunnen deze dichters inhuren om het te verwerken tot poëzie? Wat is dan de muze? Een factuur? Een kwitantie?
Ik chargeer, maar ben oprecht. Het is een eer, dit kleingevecht. Maar begrijpt u nu toch echt! Dat ik niet dicht? Dat is terecht.
Hier nog eentje ;-)
💣 The Great WTF Chronicles 💣
In boardrooms bright and bunkers deep,
The warlords rouse from power-sleep.
They stroke their maps with greedy hands,
Debating who gets which wastelands.
One shouts, “They blinked! Prepare the fleet!”
Another tweets from his gold seat.
While children dodge the falling sky,
The diplomats just smile and lie.
They argue loud with suits and charts,
Yet never speak of broken hearts.
They budget billions, draft decrees—
Then cancel lunch for arms surcharges.
The people groan, then scroll their feeds,
As headlines bloom like mutant weeds.
"BREAKING: Earth still kinda sucks—
More updates after these deluxe
Taco ads and crypto hacks!"
Cue nervous laughs and heart attacks.
Yet in the margins, rebels grin,
Who see the joke and see the spin.
They whisper truths, then dance, then yawn—
While empires burn before the dawn.
[ Bericht 0% gewijzigd door Hallulama op 24-04-2025 21:47:20 ]O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves
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