The things I have lost over the years...
A Gilgiti hat, my book on dinosaurs, friends, the Guinness Book of World Records, my fear of that disabled veteran in the wheelchair near the train station, South Wales, the opportunity to become rich for the rest of my life (let's not go there!), furniture, my heart, a black cardigan, sun glasses, some hair, a collection of old coins, stamps, a carefree smile, old tin soldiers, a sense of direction, marbles, my mind(?), belongingness, the ability to spell, socks, a wedding ring, time, registration papers, und einiges, was ich niemand verrate...
Some things are lost, some are irretrievable; some you forget, some you can't but help remember. A silver mirror makes your heart sink; a gold cup at your lips, and the world was full again. Learn to let go. At this age you realize there is no learning. Hold on, then, b. Ah, the wisp of regret, the mortal coil, the unfolding of a piece of paper, an indecipherable list of 'things to do', books 'to read'; little r, in a fit of beautiful destructiveness, has drawn a crazy series of circles over the lists. In all the lists in the world, and the lists of lists, there are some things the heart cannot speak of.
A Gilgiti hat, my book on dinosaurs, friends, the Guinness Book of World Records, my fear of that disabled veteran in the wheelchair near the train station, South Wales, the opportunity to become rich for the rest of my life (let's not go there!), furniture, my heart, a black cardigan, sun glasses, some hair, a collection of old coins, stamps, a carefree smile, old tin soldiers, a sense of direction, marbles, my mind(?), belongingness, the ability to spell, socks, a wedding ring, time, registration papers, und einiges, was ich niemand verrate...
Some things are lost, some are irretrievable; some you forget, some you can't but help remember. A silver mirror makes your heart sink; a gold cup at your lips, and the world was full again. Learn to let go. At this age you realize there is no learning. Hold on, then, b. Ah, the wisp of regret, the mortal coil, the unfolding of a piece of paper, an indecipherable list of 'things to do', books 'to read'; little r, in a fit of beautiful destructiveness, has drawn a crazy series of circles over the lists. In all the lists in the world, and the lists of lists, there are some things the heart cannot speak of.
No comments:
Post a Comment