dreaming these dreams

Summertime inside, while I am filled with Autumn. You bring heat to me.

Unadorned and fresh from the steam of the shower, you are radiant.

Wrapped all around me, while I was wrapped up in you. Back and forth we went.

“most days i am a museum of things i want to forget.”

Come now adventure, come now reckless abandon, come now wanderlust.

“As for me, I’m quiet though full of melancholy;”

Writing down your thoughts is both necessary and harmful. It leads to eccentricity, narcissism, preserves what should be let go. On the other hand, these notes intensify the inner life, which, left unexpressed, slips through your fingers. If only I could find a better kind of journal, humbler, one that would preserve the same thoughts, the same flesh of life, which is worth saving. Moreover the writer invents himself as a character in this form. He shapes himself from the shards of the everyday, from the truth of that daily life. Which is also a truth not to be scorned.

With such a ray, no spell of thine Can make our later pleasures shine, Though long ago they passed.