(no subject)

Jun 28, 2008 17:58

So now I'm leaving this place after so many years. I may be the last to go, but there are so many comings and goings that I can't keep track of it all. So instead I'll listen to old Less than Jake and clean a room that was mine for too long.

Writing without an audience is elusive. As if lines were hidden behind such simple household things: pots, pans, discarded shirts and tea-stained drinking mugs. I can't hear words anymore, just the mumbles out of a mouth I hardly understand is my own. I'm no good at wit and humor, I'll be drinking bitter until the throat closes up.

And really, we're all far from where we should be (if there is such a place.) I was always told I needed a center to stand on, so I suppose it's time to (paraphrasing H.D.) move outward, again, toward the simplicity of the unknown center. But for now, all that is certain:

One must be an alchemist to grow roses.
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