Saturday, November 5, 2011

1: Scribble

I do not know what happened, or to what I owe it to. Suddenly I was smiling and skipping.

I was not writing. I had forgotten how much words could  move me. I had forgotten how much power these letters had over me. I had forgotten how much I wanted to be able to affect.

I found you, a muse, an inspiration, an embodiment of what I had almost left behind. Thank you.

Remember what I'm to do now.

It is life in slow motion,
it's the heart in reverse,
it's a hope-and-a-half:
too much and too little at once.

It's a train that suddenly
stops with no station around,
and we can hear the cricket,
and, leaning out the carriage

door, we vainly contemplate
a wind we feel that stirs
the blooming meadows, the meadows
made imaginary by this stop.

The Wait, Rilke

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