Tuesday, July 26, 2011

20. We view our limits

Reality is a poor substitute for fairy tales:
I am always laughing,
in the same red shirt,
as if I was always cast to play the same victim,
Over, over, over.

Crueller to mourn the unknown,
not having a body to bury.
It’s a luxury to grieve –
but I cry for my unborn, my unrequited –

Spiders do not have the time
to remember
before they are

There is no ending
but I – must be thankful.
Thankful for having met you,
for having let you go,
for carrying on with this
hapless play,
for living.

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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson