For almost three years I couldn’t write a line.
Life in chaos
agitation, stress, anxieties.
Forced from home a second time.
But two months after moving out
I opened my old notebook at an empty page
and put down 2010’s first entry…
“Imagining others are as incapable of faith as oneself.
A nihilistic hubris?”
“Apocalyptic fantasy: nourishing resentful spirits.
Solipsists who’d take whole worlds along
on last goodbyes.
Too unwell for upbeat, still
the next part read:
“Certain states rely upon denial;
of incompatibilities, suppressed hostilities,
psychic energies: sublimated or expressed,
attracting and repelling, asymmetric animus
from sides most triggered, nursing ardent hatreds
in the name of love.
So sexed-up cultures may offend
traditions wedded to austerity,
with tolerance seeming weaker
when neutrality proves impotent
against fiercer cries.
Though even optimism,
might repress us
alleging our own good.
While those lacking ideology, perhaps
retreat through irony, plus sneers.
Truth has a tendency
to arrive too late.”
Such thoughts were hardly pleasant
and remained unshared.
Yet at least my pen had
by leaving marks
which traced ideas
(Any art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it. Comments are very welcome!)
(PS: Have been very ill and low recently, finding it hard to keep going, would be really nice to hear from someone.
It gets so quiet on my site, with such a tiny audience.
Thank you for reading.)
( anxiety / art / beauty / depression / drawing / ideas / lostness / mental health / philosophy / poem / poetry / thoughts / writing )