2001-07-17 - 10:47 p.m.

It was always fiercer, brighter, gentler than could be told
Even in words quickened by Truth's dark eye:
Its absence, whirlpool; its presence, deluge;
Its time, astonishment; its magnitude,
A murderous dagger-point.

So we surrender
Our voices to the dried and scurrying leaves
And choose our own long-predetermined path
From the unsaid to the yet unsayable
In silence of love and love's temerity.

Robert Graves

I think that I am afraid of being someone. I would rather meander through life having masticated freely on the garden paths that lay before me. But I will be woke one morning by some nefarious thing-in-itself and be made to realise that my credo is merely a belief.

I do not live in the realm of de jure decisions. I can imbibe words - they often are resplendent in possibility. But I am too clever by half.

I fear the thought of a hereafter. I am sparse and intellectually lithe and content to peer. I do not want to hear "Schnell, Klein und Blitzkrieg!". Leave me in my thrice-bled misery. I make my bed every day, much to my own chagrin. I must lie in it.

It has been a basic tenet of mine that in any and all ways I'm different.

If I persist in thinking so, if I content myself with the magnitude of 'Where does anything begin?' I can only logically chide myself. I do but corral the remnants and vestiges of that which has been particulary mine. To discount Hegel - I am alone. Lucre, Mammon, Psyche, Sisyphus, Achilles - no more shall my thoughts be ascending!

Words without thoughts never to heaven go

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