Self-knowledge — the bitterest knowledge of all and also the kind we cultivate least: what is the use of catching ourselves out, morning to night, in the act of illusion, pitilessly tracing each act back to its root, and losing case after case before our own tribunal?

when i awoke this morning, i could dredge but a single thought.

nothing cobbled from a flotsam of sleepscenes. not a chafe against Time’s collar (too early/five more minutes/too late). no question (what first?) nor a sigh (as in why?).

only this—

 not again.

not again. please.

The generative power of Creation is limitless and inexhaustible, but I am limited—and exhausted.
Years disintegrate into months, months into days, days into hours, minutes into seconds, seconds run past. You won’t catch them. Everything runs past. Flies away. Who am I? I am a certain number of seconds - that have run past. The result: nothing. Nothing.
- Witold Gombrowicz, Cosmos (via vvni)

(via tectusregis)

my voice teacher has no idea the favor she did me by needing to reschedule my lesson.

(her daughter is flying in for the weekend from New York and lands about the time we would normally start working on pieces)

i haven’t touched a single thing i was supposed to look at, and am tired/brain-scrambled enough to be profoundly glad for one less hour of singing in this week of weeks. she probably did herself a favor in this. unknowingly saving herself from trying to salvage something from the time as i oscillated from extreme to further extreme than usual. ugh.

anyway, it was clear that she wished she could have attended tonight’s concert, and left me with a number of kind, encouraging insights before we parted ways. clear also to me that i will miss her face among the attendees far more than i might be pleased to see my mother’s. i physically winced at that.

tonight is not about you, i remind myself—another relief. thank the music for its balm (its buffer). thank the faith for the music. thank Time, oft-spurred and even oftener leash-yanked, for passing yet through this frame.

i was sure i would have words, by now.

some words. any words.

i was so sure.

And I exist, I roam but I don’t sleep anymore
I cry, laugh, scream but I don’t remember why.
- Katerina Gogou, from Memories (via violentwavesofemotion)
The glass does not break because it is glass,
Said the philosopher. The glass could stay
Unbroken forever, shoved back in a dark closet,
Slowly weeping itself, a colorless liquid.
The glass breaks because somebody drops it
From a height — a grip stunned open by bad news
Or laughter. A giddy sweep of grand gesture
Or fluttering nerves might knock it off the table —
Or perhaps wine emptied from it, into the blood,
Has numbed the fingers. It breaks because it falls
Into the arms of the earth — that grave attraction.
It breaks because it meets the floor’s surface,
Which is solid and does not give. It breaks because
It is dropped, and falls hard, because it hits
Bottom, and because nobody catches it.
- "Fragment," A. E. Stallings (via elucubrare)
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