"And The Poem, I Think, Is Only Your Voice Speaking."

"And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking."

-Virginia Woolf, The Waves.-

(Artwork by Malcolm T. Liepke.)

I shall stand on my own

as your words that I cannot forget

hung on the hooks of my memory.

I shall stand, stand I shall,

and spin away your words

of salt and of injury

Into indifference, into oblivion

and be shaped and reshaped

by my own conquering voice.

I shall stand. Stand I did.

@kafkaesquebibliomaniac

(Artwork Self-portrait with Death Playing the Fiddle by Arnold Bocklîn.)

"Let me pull myself out of these waters. But they heap themselves on me; they sweep me between their great shoulders; I am turned; I am tumbled; I am stretched, among these long lights, these long waves, these endless paths, with people pursuing, pursuing."

-Virginia Woolf, The Waves.-

Many moments in life are overlooked. We don't capture their essence because they are frequent, familiar and routine-esque. So they go by without meaning, without quality because we are impatient. Going to the beach by yourself, sitting on a bench in some garden, sitting by the window, music on the back as you watch everything outside moving, walking down some street with your friend, not necessarily talking, looking at your mother in the kicthen...etc. Moments like these when you let them be, let them sink and give yourself to them; they offer therapy, serenity, healing and they bring meaning all along. All you have to do is surrender and become the moment. Your day, your schedules, your work, your studies, your occupations and distractions will be done, finished, and taken care of sooner or later. Don't let them finish you, that's all.

From A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.

My current read.

It's beautiful when passages from a book seem to speak with you as a person behind your role as a reader. You don't have to necessarily relate to the mood or the feeling it gives, sometimes you strongly do and often times, for me, it's just genuine to experience that fleeing sense of being understood.

We're together but each one of us is pulled back by the dogs of isolation. The desperation for touch, for speech is crisp but the silence is conquering. We sit disconnected, we sense our words and phrases falling short of dare and of significance. We look at each other but our eyes are clouded, blinded by the black mist of misunderstanding. I look at you and you at me, we are mere discoloured postcards, ripped love letters, both of us are clinging on something that's driving us astray. We're together but we're so lonely. Your eyes have their unfinished passion and mine are brim of affection. But none of us dares to come closer or to set the tongue free. We sit: silent, self-centred, singular, and sinuous, as we let these small misunderstandings, grouping, winning, and seizing vain victory. You look at me again and I at you, our wrong silence is bleeding for speech, for liberation, for communication.

@kafkaesquebibliomaniac

(Artwork by Joseph Lorusso.)

(Artworks by Urs Fischer.)