No Fairy Tale
It finally dawned on me. There's no fairy tale. There's no special true love. There will be no house with big dogs. No pot of gold. I got the news you are dying - and I don't want to make this about you. Because it has always been about you. But the finitude of life was also presented to me this year. Diagnosis: a potential aneurysm. Dying is fine by me. I made my peace with it a long time ago.
People are just learning how to be alone and distant. Personal peace takes precedence amidst the chaos of life. One of my greatest fears has ever been the thought that being alone is better than loving someone. I have mastered being alone. I can even say it feels good.
Lately, Rilke is good company:
Perhaps it's no more than the fire's reflection
on some piece of gleaming furniture
that the child remembers so much later
like a revelation.
And if in his later life, one day
wounds him like so many others,
it's because he mistook some risk
or other for a promise.
Let's not forget the music, either,
that soon had hauled him
toward absence complicated
by an overflowing heart….
on some piece of gleaming furniture
that the child remembers so much later
like a revelation.
And if in his later life, one day
wounds him like so many others,
it's because he mistook some risk
or other for a promise.
Let's not forget the music, either,
that soon had hauled him
toward absence complicated
by an overflowing heart….
Let's not forget poetry when we die. Perhaps this way, our hearts will still belong.
Rilke is right: "he mistook some risk or other for a promise."
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