Wednesday, September 26, 2007

The alternative lies in the humbling notion of
standing still - contently, appreciatively, quietly;
consolation in the fact that it could be worse.
It could be worse.
That saying always bristles my spine without fail.
Of late, I often loathe writing. Walking along that
much-treaded road, battered with cliches,
lugging along only to find walls upon walls within ready-
made spillages spraying me stupid,
tripping with its ease. And when it gets difficult,
when rococo facades do open up clearings,
it closes up again, just as the good going was
getting started. Then the wait. For the next
bout of lighting, which in my case, is literal enough.

Woolf spoke of thinking of things in themselves.
Sure, that works, but only until you trip onto
yourself again, always there, and I haven’t
mastered self-annihilation enough to ignore the
mirror. Or my neighbor’s.
Vintage scars. No cars.
Brilliance brims on the afterthought.

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