Love your rage, not your cage.
Here is the handful
of shadow I have brought back to you:
this decay, this hope, this mouthful
of dirt, this poetry.
She understood why it angered her when people spoke of life as One life. She became certain of myriad lives within herself. Her sense of time altered. She felt acutely and with grief, the shortness of life’s physical span. Death was terrifyingly near, and the journey towards it, vertiginous; but only when she considered the lives around her, accepting their time tables, clocks, measurements. Everything they did constricted time. They spoke of one birth, one childhood, one adolescence, one romance, one marriage, one maturity, one aging, one death and then transmitted the monotonous cycle to their children.
Each day the colors of her dress became more subdued, her walk less animal. It was as if in captivity, her brilliant plumage were losing its brilliance. She felt the metamorphosis. She knew she was moulting. But she did not know what she was losing in moulding herself to Donald’s needs.
The enemy of a love is never outside, it’s not a man or a woman, it’s what we lack in ourselves.
She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.
The waltz leading to catastrophe: swirling in spangled airy skirts, on polished floors, into an abyss, the minor notes always recalling that man’s destiny was ruled by ultimate darkness.
But then she had always preferred the night to the day. Moonlight fell directly over her bed in the summer. She lay naked in it for hours before falling asleep, wondering what its rays would do to her skin, her hair, her eyes, and then deeper, to her feelings.
In homeopathy there is a remedy called pulsatile for those who weep at music
Write. Find a way to keep alive and write. There is nothing else to say. If you are going to be a writer there is nothing I can say to stop you; if you’re not going to be a writer nothing I can say will help you. What you really need at the beginning is somebody to let you know that the effort is real.