52/288-289-290: Go

[rejectomorph]

For the last few days I haven't felt like doing much, and certainly not like writing about the not much I've been doing. I'm pretty sure I've been eating stuff, because I find leftovers in my refrigerator, but I don't remember fixing them. It's hard to tell one day from another when they are all gray and fuzzy. The inside of my brain is gray and fuzzy, too, and I still sleep a lot— more than I'm awake, it sometimes seems. And often I awake in the dim light of foggy day or the nocturnal dark, and I lie in bed, reluctant to leave the warm covers, and I will try to remember things, and too often fail, so it will seem I have no past. But I'm sure I do have past, I just can't remember it anymore. I'm sure it's a future I don't have, but I can't remember if I ever had one of those, so maybe there's nothing to regret.




Sunday Verse

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

by William Butler Yeats


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.