I was quite sure I was going crazy. For years I walked around talking to myself in my head. I know we all do this. But as well as the usual internal dialogue, I imagined not conversations so much, as monologues.
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Do all the if-only-I-could things
all of the pointless, wonderful things
Sometimes we come loose
from the fabric of our life,
our fingers too sore,
our eyes too tired
to find the way back in.
Every original thing has come
from the invisible beyond
It’s not too late
to go to wild places,
alone,
and unafraid…
Some part of me longs to keep moving, keep busy, keep my mind fully and wholly engaged in the business of life. Another part of me longs for stillness. This part of me quietly insists I stay where I am, wherever I am, and listen.
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Do you have the patience to wait
till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
till the right action arises by itself?
—from Chapter 15, Tao Te Ching
Books I’ve loved, and a couple that so many writers have on their shelf…
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Your words, a candle
on a bare wooden sill,
talisman
against the baying night.
I want to know
what wants to come through you,
what lies waiting?
A life stripped of riches,
a self swept aside for sameness,
barely holds together…