But those the silent feel
Though I’m obviously not particularly silent so perhaps this doesn’t pertain.
I’ve mentioned Emily Dickinson’s perseverance here before. Or, rather, my own perception of this perseverance. Her writing has such a fire that I inevitably compare the energies inside of her to my own energies–not, I add hastily, in that our writing is similar–rather, it is just that I cannot imagine she did not feel fires of agitation similar to those I feel. And yet.
Where has my patience gone?
I cannot be honest with you. I will not lie but I will not tell the truth either. Sometimes we tell ourselves stories in order to live. I’ve lost the thread of my own narrative.
You left me Boundaries of Pain–
Capacious as the Sea–
I’m tempted to end this post here. A little Emily Dickinson; a little of my own whining and then…
Between Eternity and Time–
Your Consciousness and me