rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2024-09-01 06:24 am
rejectomorph) wrote2024-09-01 06:24 am
Reset Fifty, Day Fifty-One
Saturday was mostly for sleeping again. The details of hours and waking moments are gone, but their impression remains. There was a very late rising, perhaps the third of the day, near midnight. Then hours of sitting and puzzling over the silence deep in my brain that couldn't make itself heard through all the mindless noise. Finally I just gave up an fixed the dinner I'd been too tired to fix before sleeping.
Dinner, belated or no, is not an ideal substitute for clear thoughts, but as it's all I had I made do with it. And when it was gone it was dawn, and I am probably ready for sleep again. It's finally September, which I honestly never expected to see, and I have no real plans or expectations, other than to be surprised when I make it through another day or another night. At the moment all I'm thinking about is that square of chocolate I'm going to eat before I try to get to sleep again.
Sunday Verse
by Rainer Maria Rilke
You are not surprised at the force of the storm—
you have seen it growing.
The trees flee. Their flight
sets the boulevards streaming. And you know:
he whom they flee is the one
you move toward. All your senses
sing him, as you stand at the window.
The weeks stood still in summer.
The trees' blood rose. Now you feel
it wants to sink back
into the source of everything. You thought
you could trust that power
when you plucked the fruit;
now it becomes a riddle again,
and you again a stranger.
Summer was like your house: you knew
where each thing stood.
Now you must go out into your heart
as onto a vast plain. Now
the immense loneliness begins.
The days go numb, the wind
sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves.
Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have.
Be earth now, and evensong.
Be the ground lying under that sky.
Be modest now, like a thing
ripened until it is real,
so that he who began it all
can feel you when he reaches for you.
Dinner, belated or no, is not an ideal substitute for clear thoughts, but as it's all I had I made do with it. And when it was gone it was dawn, and I am probably ready for sleep again. It's finally September, which I honestly never expected to see, and I have no real plans or expectations, other than to be surprised when I make it through another day or another night. At the moment all I'm thinking about is that square of chocolate I'm going to eat before I try to get to sleep again.
Sunday Verse
Onto a Vast Plain
by Rainer Maria Rilke
You are not surprised at the force of the storm—
you have seen it growing.
The trees flee. Their flight
sets the boulevards streaming. And you know:
he whom they flee is the one
you move toward. All your senses
sing him, as you stand at the window.
The weeks stood still in summer.
The trees' blood rose. Now you feel
it wants to sink back
into the source of everything. You thought
you could trust that power
when you plucked the fruit;
now it becomes a riddle again,
and you again a stranger.
Summer was like your house: you knew
where each thing stood.
Now you must go out into your heart
as onto a vast plain. Now
the immense loneliness begins.
The days go numb, the wind
sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves.
Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have.
Be earth now, and evensong.
Be the ground lying under that sky.
Be modest now, like a thing
ripened until it is real,
so that he who began it all
can feel you when he reaches for you.