"It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work, and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings." ~Wendell Berry
what i know is that i can't sit here much longer. I am so full. So full that
this chair is torture, this desk is torture, the fan, the still air outside
my small space, the clicking of the keyboard, the slurp of water that
cools me for a moment and then stops cooling me completely. So full.
So full that my shoes are tight, my socks bursting up in the tops, my
ankles swelling with fullness. So full. Soulful. Souffle of boredom
and stress rising between my shoulder blades and branching into my
medulla oblongata. Fullness itching at my eyelids, scratching the
hairs in my nose. Full Full Full. I am going to look that Wendell
Berry quote I saw yesterday up and I will emblazon it across my dusty
window; those who are doing nothing and all of it. Spinning my wheels,
driving the ruts in deeper. I may look like I am holding still but
desperation is driving me inside. Each shallow breath pushing that
fullness like freight from vein to tunnel changing vein. Each shallow
breath telling me that I am full and that soon there will be no more
space left for more of this. I know what I want now, I just don't know
how to get from here with this circumferential path of uncertainties
and rules and agonizing breathlessness to there, with it's golden
gleaming promises of art and joy and laughter and a warm baby to hold.
How do get there from here? Which route will lead me to the wide open
vista of my life? The top of the plateau, the gleaming desires wide
necked and open before me? The tangle of the ocean of desire. I wish
to read again. I wish to open myself up to the possibilities of
theory, the proudness of understanding original thought, the glee of
knowing something new rising within me. I am full of here, full or
desire for there.
my small space, the clicking of the keyboard, the slurp of water that
cools me for a moment and then stops cooling me completely. So full.
So full that my shoes are tight, my socks bursting up in the tops, my
ankles swelling with fullness. So full. Soulful. Souffle of boredom
and stress rising between my shoulder blades and branching into my
medulla oblongata. Fullness itching at my eyelids, scratching the
hairs in my nose. Full Full Full. I am going to look that Wendell
Berry quote I saw yesterday up and I will emblazon it across my dusty
window; those who are doing nothing and all of it. Spinning my wheels,
driving the ruts in deeper. I may look like I am holding still but
desperation is driving me inside. Each shallow breath pushing that
fullness like freight from vein to tunnel changing vein. Each shallow
breath telling me that I am full and that soon there will be no more
space left for more of this. I know what I want now, I just don't know
how to get from here with this circumferential path of uncertainties
and rules and agonizing breathlessness to there, with it's golden
gleaming promises of art and joy and laughter and a warm baby to hold.
How do get there from here? Which route will lead me to the wide open
vista of my life? The top of the plateau, the gleaming desires wide
necked and open before me? The tangle of the ocean of desire. I wish
to read again. I wish to open myself up to the possibilities of
theory, the proudness of understanding original thought, the glee of
knowing something new rising within me. I am full of here, full or
desire for there.
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