“Write because it is your quiet. Write for silence. Not to quiet the world, but to shut you up and listen to the ineffable symphony play its unknown instruments.”
For meowing at me when I walked in. (He was incessant about it, I should add. But still. Meowing.)
Yeah. I’m that tired. I need to call this day did.
i’m keeping it close, because i don’t know where i may need to borrow from as it continues swinging. and i hate that. silence is hard, and sad, too, when riding upon necessity. i look only to the lull that must come as the next wave gathers itself to spring.
“Wild is the music of the autumnal wind
Among the faded woods; but these blithe notes
Strike the deserted to the heart;”
but even in proximity to myself, i fail. i, who am so often moorless, cannot keep company without marring. to attempt to write beneath the murk of my own ruin is useless. no beauty left in the striking of bruises.
“The will itself is still a prisoner. Willing liberates; but what is it that puts even the liberator himself in fetters? ‘It was’—that is the name of the will’s gnashing of teeth and most secret melancholy. Powerless […] The will cannot will backwards; and that he cannot break time and time’s covetousness, that is the will’s loneliest melancholy.”