et aujourd'hui

and today
it is straight to the heart of everything,
no vision spared, no memory sacred

and today
it is more real than ever,
caught here on this filament

today
pressing in, pressing on
knowing nothing, knowing
that which i do not wish to know,
but still,
knowing nothing.

today
dreams of paris, dreams of wellness
dreams of escape, of staying here,
of love, of loss
of you.

{ she, today }

grignolino scarf || anthropologie

sometimes it is only a fragment that can be written aloud. everything else is too itself to be named, to holy to be spoken, too painful to be held in the fragile net of words, of this present moment. and for every silken string in the sostenuto of this in-between . . . there is a word, an idea, a way of representing what is. but today i leave it all to the half-world. i sense that the molecules of this hour are not closely bound enough to remain intact if i were to pull at the edge of the world and trace its jagged outline.

and i cannot speak, and my eyes fail. am i living or dead? i know nothing.
i stand at the door of your light, my silence. i am here; but for how long?

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust . . .

--Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

{ from The Waste Land - Burial of the Dead - T.S. Eliot }