Finding a new way to say what you do not say.
~~~
A friend asked: "Is it too late?"
Yes, it is. It always is.
"No, I mean, is it too late for us to turn our lives around, get a second chance, put ourselves in with a shout, a sniff of the game?"
Dude, it's over.
Finally convinced, he asks, "Okay, but where did it all go wrong?"
Where, when, how? The old questions. The cards we're dealt. Anyone who accepts that isn't fully human, I guess.
~~~
Rooted to the square, the place we were. Before the bell sounded and we followed our own paths, or paths that we had to follow, or paths that we stumbled upon and that were not really paths at all. To say the obvious is only to continue the fall. There is no new wound, except it seems that way to each person, and that is enough.
~~~
When do the colours change, the precise moment? From blue to grey, say? Blessed is the man who sees the colours of the sky and doesn't think of his own soul...
Driving back on the empty road, alone and with the windows down, a light breeze keeping things clear; the moon radiant and high in the eastern sky, but chipped and ultimately flawed. The last dregs of light in the sky as it just holds the line, and then the grey invades and silence falls. Lights in the nearby houses are switched on. Preparations are made. Introductions, the rattling of silverware, the exact placing of things, keys disengaged from the word again, the folding of napkins, the comforting sound of car tyres on gravel. A timeless scene of homecoming, forgetfulness. In front of you, on the road, a man on a motorbike engulfed in the darkness, except for his headlights which produce a warm and shallow pool of light around the patch of road he travels on. That's it. The small lights in evening, the brief moments of illumination. One man and a road.
~~~
Distances, irreducible, are what make us what we are. This distance: from God, nature, other human beings, ourselves is also called longing.
I need you. I don't need you.
'We are at the point where love is just possible.'
---simone.
~~~
A friend asked: "Is it too late?"
Yes, it is. It always is.
"No, I mean, is it too late for us to turn our lives around, get a second chance, put ourselves in with a shout, a sniff of the game?"
Dude, it's over.
Finally convinced, he asks, "Okay, but where did it all go wrong?"
Where, when, how? The old questions. The cards we're dealt. Anyone who accepts that isn't fully human, I guess.
~~~
Rooted to the square, the place we were. Before the bell sounded and we followed our own paths, or paths that we had to follow, or paths that we stumbled upon and that were not really paths at all. To say the obvious is only to continue the fall. There is no new wound, except it seems that way to each person, and that is enough.
~~~
When do the colours change, the precise moment? From blue to grey, say? Blessed is the man who sees the colours of the sky and doesn't think of his own soul...
Driving back on the empty road, alone and with the windows down, a light breeze keeping things clear; the moon radiant and high in the eastern sky, but chipped and ultimately flawed. The last dregs of light in the sky as it just holds the line, and then the grey invades and silence falls. Lights in the nearby houses are switched on. Preparations are made. Introductions, the rattling of silverware, the exact placing of things, keys disengaged from the word again, the folding of napkins, the comforting sound of car tyres on gravel. A timeless scene of homecoming, forgetfulness. In front of you, on the road, a man on a motorbike engulfed in the darkness, except for his headlights which produce a warm and shallow pool of light around the patch of road he travels on. That's it. The small lights in evening, the brief moments of illumination. One man and a road.
~~~
Distances, irreducible, are what make us what we are. This distance: from God, nature, other human beings, ourselves is also called longing.
I need you. I don't need you.
'We are at the point where love is just possible.'
---simone.
2 comments:
When do the colours change, the precise moment? From blue to grey, say? Blessed is the man who sees the colours of the sky and doesn't think of his own soul...
did you write this, b? it is so poignant and so true...
i was not aware of this version of Chelsea hotel (i so love this song)... it is beautiful, i love the fragility in her voice...
your post makes me think of Hoelderlin's Evening Fantasy
Before his hut, quietly in the shadows
Sits the ploughman, contentedly, his hearth smoking
The evening bell tolls a welcome
To the peaceful village.
Now the boatmen too turn harbor-ward,
In distant cities the happy sounds
of the marketplace settle down; in quiet greenery
glitters a sociable repast among friends.
Whither shall I go? Mortals live
By labor and wage, alternating labor and rest
And all is happiness; why then is it
That in me alone the thorn allows no repose?
In the evening sky Spring’s bloom opens up;
The roses bloom innumerably and the golden world
Seems at peace; transport me thence,
Purple clouds! And may above
My love and passion melt into light and air! -
But my foolish request causes
The magic to flee; darkness falls and alone
beneath the heavens, as ever, I remain -
Come now, soft sleep! For too much does my heart
Yearn; but in the end, youth smolders too
Restless, dreamy! Then comes
Old age, serene and peaceful.
–Friedrich Hölderlin
yes, i did. it was basically a copy of basho.
yeah, i really like this version of the song as well.
thanks for the poem!
salams,
b.
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