If a man falls, so not the decadent sky,
But an inky irreplaceable blackness,
Now captive of his creation,
And only the volume is left...
But an inky irreplaceable blackness,
Now captive of his creation,
And only the volume is left...
It's been such a long time since I've written anything. That phrase ought never to be used in the first line of a composition -- as a matter both of ethics and of style. But if I'm to begin again at all, I have to begin with the first thought that strikes me, and given what I am beginning, the first thought that strikes me is that. I am clearing my throat before I speak or testing out my voice. It was much the same thing to say to myself again and again "Hello" when I was young -- just to assure myself that I could speak. It is honesty, anyway, and it is a true record. But wouldn't it be odd to come across the memorial of a man, each of whose entries began, "It has been such a long time since I have remembered...?" This is meditation in the way that I know it -- repeatedly catching oneself. This awareness comes and goes in waves -- in waves, perhaps, it builds into something deeper. Or else it just subsides and reappears. But that is...
Comments
Post a Comment