It's an art form unto itself
Procrastination, that is.
Lookie what I got reminded of whilst doing the stream-of-consciousness type of web surfing:
Conversation
The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.
Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;
until a name
and all its connotation are the same.
Elizabeth Bishop
Ah, good ole Lizzie... Lezzie? Whatever.
This then made me a tad melancholy, and the best way to deal with them pale blue feelings is to beat them out with something utterly and completely depressing. Enter, Ani:
The True Story of What Was
(...)
then in a flash
the light blue horizon
spanning a sudden black
is sucked into the vanishing point
and quiet rushes back
to search for the downbeat
in a tabla symphony
to search in the darkness
for someone who looks like me
(though i'm not really who i said i was
or who i thought i'd be)
just a collection of recollections
conversations consisting
of the kind of marks we make
when we're trying to make a pen work again
a lifetime of them
i say to me
now here listening
i say to the locusts
that sing and sing to me sitting
now here on the front porch swing of my eyes:
i hereby amend
whatever i've ever said
with this sigh
ani d.
And now that I'm properly caffeinated, coming off full eight hours of restful sleep, and it's sunny and warm and so banally Spring-like out there? I kinda miss the melancholy. I like melancholy. It's such a naturally tranquilizing feeling; that fine edge between pensive and sad that manages to calmly pare the superfluous down to what the real issue is.
The issue being that I really, honestly, truly cannot get myself to start working on the "Tax Reform in Croatia in the View of EU Ascension" for the LIFE of me.
So.
I think I'll go back to Ms. Bishop for a bit longer.
Viva la Procrastination!