During the night I write |
Writing a poem, suffering from a headache. It’s been a wish for years. To live on the edge of the abyss. Concurring that fear is magical and makes you suspect miracles exist. Sitting in the dark wondering what the purpose is. Does the future reveal itself in the present and wherefore? Why linger for centuries that will not change? Here and now it’s bound to happen and it will, without effort it seems, when you forget the amount of time, so much time that should have been wasted on living. What do these church bells mean in the distance? It’s the middle of the night! The neighbors are asleep and you crave you could trade places with them just for a short while. A few minutes, to taste, hear, smell what it’s like, and feel what’s missing. But NO, that lie is too easy and above all untrue. The choking goes too fast. Teeth clenched, the desire for a poem is bigger than you thought. And then, when it prevails (might it continue longer than a few minutes), the joy: this fragment that congeals in this night, how unique is it? How real this meet with an old friend, a love not ceasing despite the years of searching for the provenance, the origin of everything that was? It’s there to stay, to mature, to be what it’s supposed to be: the filled hand of the searcher. I am aware of my aim for the animation of words. Don’t let it stop, please let's continue what’s been started. It’s time to wake up. And when it struck 00.30 a.m., the silence deafening, sincere and naive like the child you once were; the worries, that were always there, disappeared. When it’s past half of this night, this endless jump ahead, where will it lead you? The minutes tick-tocking silently, it surprises and I wonder about my ignorance. You want to shout out but you won’t, out of respect for the long wait. The child learned how to walk, learned cycle. What else is there? Is there more? The grown-up and the old one, both back in the margin of a story that just slightly evaporates. This is what is there, this tastes like more, this wants to continue. This longing for words: my voice opens up, stands up, starts a snake dance with air. Lines:46 Prose Poem |