Ya Know

I could’ve been better to her

Check.

“People are strange: They are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice.”
-Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems.

I am now back to my dry monotonous daily rhythm  

and don’t quite know why

Heres something strange I wrote. I don’t quite like it, but here it goes:

Calm wind slips through their open window while the outside showers redolently fill the open room of their red bricked apartment.

Inside is a well-worn couch and a broken water heater.

Their silent faces stare blankly while eating moldy bread. Thoughts between them fabricate, yet remain unspoken. Their effort for conversation fails, resulting in the silence of their love.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forebear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 
Far mark’d with the courses of clear winding rills, 
There daily I wander as noon rises high 
My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea 
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides, 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays, 
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

-Robert Burns

I look upon the still glassy water that the opalescent sunset reflects. Up above are migrating flocks, returning to their safety, but this autumn air feels fine to me.

I can feel the subtle breeze which sifts and speaks through oaken leaves, and ready my reel with ease. I then cast my line into the stillness, producing ripples as its gliding disturbs its silence. 

This sense of composure is religious to me, and other means of self-content will forever be of lower degree. 

after 18 years

“It rests me to converse with beautiful women,

Even though we talk nothing but nonesense”

- Ezra Pound