rained last night. And yet each time it rains I will add in a mild dream, this time the rain had the opposite effect: the snap of a hypnotist.
"(...) we are proud until music
water
returns us to the lack of height. "
came to mind these lines from "The Exiles" written by WH Auden in 1930 (something that surprises me, since my mind tends to be a bottomless pit when it comes back what I have ever read, so I made the most overwhelming impressions). The vaguely remembered, I went to look in my library. And then, with the book in his lap, I spent some time motionless on the couch in the dark, spitting mentally between the drumming of raindrops on the metal awning balcony.
I do not know if it will be well-thought-set ourselves up as judges of our own pride ... And honestly I do not know if it will denounce the arrogance of others, if we could report it without touching the arrogance, without sin, our time, proud.
Sometimes there is nothing to protect us. Sometimes, behind what is taken for "arrogance" hides the most frightening of the nakedness: that of being "in the bone."
Can we call it "pride" in such cases, when it seems more like a slurred "dress" the circumstances, a sort of left-handedness social, emotional, behavioral, almost involuntarily, a tic, a crude concertina that nature provides in fragility and emergency cases, like the skin of hedgehogs?
exile in what for others is nonsense and for some it seems the only safe place.
A does not mind the rain, the rain seeps everywhere and says: "You, you, uh, you." Rain puts pride in place without making a key, without further ado. The rain falls equally on all wet us all, is disordered and mocks the transient strength of our atoms, is collected and re-do it as often as he pleases.
last night in the rain, thinking of these things, how tired can be a creature of toil for decades between codes do not understand, in a vicious circle in which "deprive them of what you need because it protects the debacle that emotionally deprive him of what he needs, "and so in my head I heard this song by Sheryl Crow.
The water music whispered to me that reality is not as I see it, not visual acuity problems, too much imagination or wishful thinking, but exacerbated by subjectivity, the "parallax of the soul" which vitiates all human beings. The reality is a sum, a bid of subjectivity involved. It is not a static thing, but a pool of wills that every moment is mold / shape it in their agreements and disagreements.
Music in the water had advised me strength to understand that what to me is enough or "best" may not be adequate or mediocre result from other points of view. I care that may not be relevant to others or seem ridiculous. I urge that can not match the time and what others are willing to give. What baffles me that can go undetected for others. And no human law or celestial sanction that asynchrony. The only law is respect for the will and at the same time, the legitimate right to break the will by lawful means, do not harm those who wish to gain or achieve.
And I said I come from afar, reinventing it as I could to get here. And that is not the distance I want to rat my path, nor the gifts I carry with me, but everything I've lost and what I tried to change to be worthy of what I crave.
