As quietness seeps into the darker corners of the house,
silence reigns over, leaving one, who reclines,
and gazes into the space
where the bedroom walls collide;
slipping, as it were, slowly, in
to a landscape of subterranean void,
hushing her hunger away, in
to deep sleep.
Dreaming at the end of the world, about the end of the world. The view from the window constantly changes: normal, a little tilted, very much tilted. Just for passing time. Apocalypse.
I crouched and felt something stirring inside, swirling round and round like wet clothes in a washing machine. Upwards, away.
Woke up in a lighthouse.
'twas all but a mad trickery of a wizard. Someone’s gotta take him down.
A battle between gods and humans, at night, on the quay. Running down the hill, rolling and tumbling along the way. There, in the middle of night, at a small tavern, on the road by the sea, I met people who claimed they have come from a far distant land. They claimed of knowing me better than I did.
They claim to know me better than I do.
Woke up, once again, and found myself staring at the ceiling, thinking, ah, so home it is finally.
29 September. At one time I used to think: Nothing will destroy you, not this tough, clear empty head.
It is admirable to venture out of one’s own comfort zone, but it is perhaps even more admirable not to intrude those that belong to other people.
Nobody knows you.
You don’t know yourself.
And I, who am half in love with you,
What am I in love with?
My own imaginings?
Your hearts are like my hands,
Sometimes all they do is tremble.
Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers,
And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,
The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees’ song,
Is this everything only a god’s
The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?
The distant line of the mountain,
That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,
Is this too only a convulsion,
Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,
Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling,
Never resting, never a blessed movement?
No! Leave me alone, you impure dream
Of the world in suffering!
The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,
The bird’s cry cradles you,
A breath of wind cools my forehead
Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!
Let it all be pain.
Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched —
But not this one sweet hour in the summer,
And not the fragrance of the red clover,
And not the deep tender pleasure
in my soul.