Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Likethew i n d
He diverges, above.
And when he lets himself
get wrapped up in nothing,
like the wind he builds upward around its center
and so shreds what passes through the wall of its eye.
I count the forces
To which pressure declines:
‘Let me command without
the burden of your words’,
he says, ‘let me see myself as human, un-ruled, and
watch as I displace what you’ve settled at land’.
If stable then stable
Today, I let it flow.
But when he covers fast
The rest is unready,
and I can only hold it back so much so more
...to feel the current like before.
The book I read I remember. He looks, I say
Friction at the base will slow it down, but it will not change the direction of its heart.
He forms, passes, and disperses. He understands.
I let him go, dry and motionless, to sleep.
- ▼ May (5)