The most proustian moment,
Is the one where black water fills up to the brim.
Rushing through my lungs,
And I fight for the surface.
How can I hold there much longer,
The water builds in this bag of skin,
Sinking, deeper still,
For years up to now,
For years in suspened animation,
I see this is more than a bag of skin,
A grand result of time’s grand games,
Elusive yet so allusive,
And I don’t want to sink ,
Look at me now,
Coming up for air.
/* So again , first post in a while . And as you can see I have been experimenting with form , and drifting away from my usual 6/4s. So what can I say about this one, if you read through this blog chronologically you will find posts drenched in existential angst gradually giving way to a sort of stable plateau of well... i don't know ... melancholy , acceptance , happiness ... call it what you will. But that is what this one is about. Its about coming up for air after facing all those truths that Nietzsche or Sartre would tell us about ( would that be Camus or Proust ?) . Fact is we are so lucky to have human form, after all those years of evolution , and random mutations carbon molecules have evolved to give us this form of life. And I hope you don't see beauty in that .But as far as I go , I love this breath of fresh air. */