The power to change one’s life comes from a paragraph, a lone remark … The polished sentences had arrived, it seemed, like so many other things, at just the right time. How can we imagine what our lives should be without the illumination of the lives of others?
Light years, James Salter
How silly of me to ask for
What doesn’t need asking
And what still needs me to work
How silly of me to say
What can be vaporised in writing
Rubbed to air on paper
How silly of me to share
What can be felt better alone
That raw trust of sickness
Quietude of pain, immaculate, uncommented
How silly of me to ask for
That what can be created
How silly of me to ask you to change
When I can find comfort in my solitude
1. Words like splatter, sherbet, Lollapalooza.
2. Sentiments like Bombay.
3. Apples, persimmons and lemons, lemon grass and fire flies.
4. New books, fresh smell, paper, print, pictures, antique pictures, vintage art, rustic creativity.
5. Reading about writers, their habits, eccentricities, struggle.
7. Clothes, lipstick, Kohl and supple skin smoked by Kohl.
8. People, characters.
That’s one task that I would like to do: make myself better. I can be my own subject of study, my focus, my obsession. My obsession with myself will lead me to what I want to become of myself. Great idea of turning self love into the path of self discovery and self improvement. That self I must work on. That’s one path I should have thought about long long ago. I must hate myself, trigger myself with this hatred and disgust, must inspire, must bring about the change, must shoot myself and must find a better picture of self idealisation. Nobody else must inspire me but my own flaws. And nobody else must cease to inspire me but my own flaws. For flaws is all I can see on a normal day. On other days, luckily, I see an idiot aiming too high, as high as the perfect that she does not know can hardly be achieved.
I don’t understand
Why we need to fret and freak
When we know it’s about it not
Cubes of potatoes, chunks of jelly
A momentary glory, then fills my belly
Still working on the color of cushions
Fabric for curtains and tonight’s deli
But happens thrice a day and twice a month
And we’re still here to shop
Buy somehow things and make them matter
Some sentiments cling to that kerchief
Some memories brings that wrist watch
Is that worth, is that all
No wonder, we’re still so small
She dies because she wanted to live better
And he lives because he wants to die better
What can furrows hide, what can you seek in it
It’s only a tiny part of the plump
And I’m still working on the color of cushion
That will bring some sun to the head
That will keep some bugs away
Laces that will serve as ropes
Pens that will do more than writing
Anything that can bring that year
Bring that spring and detach some leaves
Off it soul
Rustle once with my hopes of that spring
That room without curtains
That I had once found nearby
Which had no adress