Circle

Life is something of the sublime. I've managed to govern my own sadness without the concern of other people, but being trapped inside a society that ranks up our existence, one cannot help but feel hopeless (in the foundation of life) together with the inevitable feeling of insignificance. I am delighted of philosophy, literature, art, and ofcourse , nature. They have kept me chained in the world. But I know the time will come when I must force myself to leave just like how I leave the temporary things around me.


This blog is hidden to the public, and if you are reading this right now, I may have given you the password and username of this virtual diary... and with the permission may have come an essential accident. A life lost maybe, a life hanging...

The things I would write here will have to be personal, immediate, direct and unrevised. Things that could let my momentary ideas close to being subjective. I will ramble thoughts inside a blender instead of organizing them as if I would come back in my memory's dying age just to relinquish them back...



Everything
by Philip Levine


Lately the wind burns
the last leaves and evening
comes too late to be
of use, lately I learned
that the year has turned
its face to winter
and nothing I say or do
can change anything.
So I sleep late and waken
long after the sun has risen
in an empty house and walk
the dusty halls or sit
and listen to the wind
creak in the eaves and struts
of this old house. I say
tomorrow will be different
but I know it won't.
I know the days are shortening
and when the sun pools
at my feet I can reach
into that magic circle
and not be burned. So
I take the few things
that matter, my book,
my glasses, my father's ring,
my brush, and put them aside
in a brown sack and wait --
someone is coming for me.
A voice I've never heard
will speak my name
or a face press to the window
as mine once pressed
when the world held me out.
I had to see what it was
it loved so much. Nothing
had time to show me
how a leaf spun itself
from water or water cried
itself to sleep for
every human thirst. Now
I must wait and be still
and say nothing I don't know,
nothing I haven't lived
over and over,
and that's everything.



I have not walked long enough, nor far enough to notice the leaves' sudden glow, their linings tracing back a slow recollection of myself...