Some Days
Some days The sun shines on your face And you don’t strain To catch its rays. For peace has come to rest upon you. Some days The wind blows and chills your bones And you don’t care To escape the cold For peace has gone, it’s left without you. Oh how fickle, This peace of ours, that chooses when to come and go, And oh how helpless Are we who wait On peace which may abide or forgo. What luck is this That we must chase a peace that runs away from us? Doomed to wander, Constant pursuit Until our bones return to dust. Some days The rain falls to the ground And life springs forth And joys abound. For love has come in all its fullness. Some days The fire rages on And scorches all We thought we’d won. For love has gone, we’ve lost our senses. Oh how fickle, This love of ours, that chooses when to come and go, And oh how helpless Are we who wait On love which may abide or forgo. What luck is this That we mush chase a love that runs away from us? Doomed to wander, Constant pursuit Until our bones return to dust.
Thoughts From the Corner
I feel soft, so terribly soft. The upper sixties feel cold and sparkling water gives me hiccups. My feet swell and peel in shoes like Clouds; my back, at times, aches from prolonged supination. I sit inside on sunny days because I can think of nothing better to do, and I feel sorry for myself. Even this drips with self-pity, and because of it I am ashamed. Ashamed of the shallow part I seem to play in life, furtively jealous of those whose lives seem to burrow deeper than my own, to run unincumbered toward meaning, to mingle intimately with the great beyond.
Still, I have my selfish critiques, the ones meant for others and not myself. For it strikes me that we talk too much of coffee and bicycles and sunglasses and nothing. We think little of things that matter, forget to search for more, stumble clumsily around in our lives caring not what might be looked for, only about other things – the more ~critical~ things, the more ~practical~ things. Things which are shinier and more pleasant, nicer, and more palatable. We dwell in lukewarm water, never daring to encounter the potentially scalding heat or the possibly frostbitten cold. Accordingly, he will spue us out of his mouth. Let it be so. For we will have missed the deep aching from which beauty springs forth.
Nevertheless, it is mostly me who is to blame for all this. As it has been said: those very people, those lovers of humanity who make the greatest effort to show everyone that they are a light to their neighbors, sooner or later have been false to themselves, playing some queer trick, often a most unseemly one. And I, with my complaints and analysis, wear the thickest mask of all. I am eager to play tricks, though I lack even the decency to play tricks honestly. I tell myself that all this thought is for Good, but I know not whether this is true. My being false unto myself bleeds uncontrollably through onto others. Morality is mine, and I have authority. Hypocrisy is mine, and I have luxury.
Oh, that I might find resolution! Or, at least, quiet – peace away from the pangs of life observed. Must I lament my comfort? Must I examine and prod continually when no analysis of my dispositions or circumstances will suffice? Must I write poetry and prose and think of things in themselves and go on feeling empty in spite of my copious blessings? I should think not.
Yet here I sit. In the corner peering out at others’ shortcomings, bathing in self-flagellation. Too stubborn to find joy, though never willing to let the dream of joy go. Too foolish to realize joy was always mine to have, though never something that I might take for myself.
Kyrie boēthei moi.
REFERENCES
Revelation 3:16
Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground, VIII
Owen, “Strange Meeting”
Matthew 15:25