Where the wor/l\d/s
daggered, jagge(re)d edges gently cut -
sublime douleur exquis!
Perhaps too close to the bone.
S/witch worlds for word/s erration
The pain on
pane of\f/
Frostian glass\flash of light pierced up- /
on the darkened ash-filled fireplace re-
flecks off/on\ the burnt-out soul.
As I trudged home today, I noticed the bark moulting from the trees. The smooth white veneer above was tearing away, strip by strip, to reveal the jagged, browned unevenness below. Thus laid bare, the trees seemed wearied with the pain of growth.
I don't know, but it seems to me that growing up feels so much like giving up on your dreams. It seems like the more you learn, the more you lose. And I feel as though I've lost so much of my life that the rest of it barely seems worth fighting for.
Fed up of the endless feeling of angst, of frust. Fed up of seeing the hopelessness and the helplessness of life - the fallen, sinful nature of man, magnified in chains of action and reactions - reflected images disrupt on shards of glass. Full up on being fed up.
A chronicle of nose growth
'...changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose:
they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character - one has to begin too far back.'
― Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
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