The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can’t reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.
Moving Forward
-Rainer Maria Rilke -
Translated by Robert Bly
I bought a little black book to write on. It hasn’t been touched yet. Funny how I can keep on doing this but can’t make myself write down my thoughts for me. To tell you the truth, it’s too damn scary. What would I say, “Hi self, you can’t make up stories here; you can’t fool me.”
The problem with standing on fishes, I think, is that they are too slippery.
i haven’t written something “for my eyes only” for the same reason: it’s scary.