We yearn for it when we don't get it. And when we finally get it, we wish things were more settled. Life's full of contradictions. But isn't that what makes it more challenging?
I'm enjoying this though- not having time or the way I see it- not having the time to waste. I have never pre-planned so much. For the last one month, I have been extremely busy; work appointments, pending commitments, excerising, meeting friends, organising parties, spending time with family, extended family and family friends, going out of town and planning each weekend in advance and also getting the time to sit at the edge of the moutain looking at the clouds with chilled beer in my hand. I'm happy I don't have to think 'damn what do I do with so much free time'. At least for now I'm enjoying this.
Last days are always a little difficult though. You got to think you are moving on to better things and not about the people you are leaving behind. They will move on too. You got to take the whole picture in- let it sink in. My drawer, my PC, my display board, my calender, my chair etc. It happened the last time and it happened again. It's a sweet feeling. I know I will smile when I look back.
Yes, I am excited about tommorow but I'm more excited about today. For today is always a moment of transition. If you live in today, you will always be in transit. At least it's better than living in a frozen image or a farfetched fantasy. At least what I have now is real; something I can feel for real. And yet it's surreal. Everything. Everything that has ever happened to me seems surreal when I come to think of it. Probably because there were some things I always knew will happen to me, that I had seen in my mind even before they transformed into the real world. And when they did, they were almost like a dream. And then there were parts that were formed out of eventuality.
All I know is, I am uncomfortable around comfort. And restless around complacency. When unchallenged I can wither away.
1 comment:
Deliverance
There’s no such thing
as the necessary poem;
that’s what saves poetry
from a life like ours,
from desire and striving.
That is not to say a poem
can’t yearn for something
it isn’t yet, can’t crave
a meal of only apricots
or want a one-way ticket
to another country.
It can. We know
how a poem can need so much
it turns to mush, and how
sometimes even out of mud
and mildew rise the most
fantastic flowers. No,
what I mean is different.
That the poem is redeemed
by indifference, that before
it’s written, the world
does very well without it.
Therefore it is free
to be what it wants to be
or not to be at all.
That’s its deliverance,
its saving grace, and why
when it decides to speak
we listen to a language
that is ours, but so unlike us.
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