I turn and burn.
If it could be said that for a brief while, I tried to become, or allowed myself to become, or simply just became a glow-worm (again?), calling, calling, asking to be found, hoping to be found, hoping, then I think it could be said I must now turn out my light. To not-hope. To stop. (Risible metaphors, risible thoughts, risible hope. Risible me.)
It seems I am irresistibly drawn to the hope for love, circling its flame. Would I, will I always come back, to burn myself over and over again? How risibly many times can one puny moth go into
cinders? How risible can my metaphors get? How risible I?
Many, and very, it seems. I am not blind.
I fear I would do so so many times it would be too many
times. I know I cannot afford to become manic (happy) or messed up
(unhappy) (again). A level of level emotions only, for me, is what I think – fear
– believe – must be, though I don’t want to believe. Or think. (I just want to
love. No! stop)
Falling in love is probably a thing I should never allow
myself – or at the very least, if it ever were to happen (again!), never to
allow myself to act upon my falling in love, if I do, if I were to, if I should fall;
instead, if I do, if I were to, if it happens, should it happen, should I fall, just to keep it to myself, never
acting upon it, never moving towards taking it anywhere, never allowing a
movement except perhaps within myself, but movement absolutely remaining within
me, never to come outside of me, into the world of action, deeds and words, for
therein will always lie
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgment not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
Okay, so Eliot wrote about religion, not love. So? And? Interpretation is in the mind of the beholder, verily.
Besides, isn’t religion a kind of love? Love a kind of
religion? (Risible thoughts. Risible words. Risible me.)
NB I do not own, nor do I claim to own, the copyright to the music on this video, and hence sincerely apologise to the Native American(s) I am ripping off by publishing it here.
So go buy the cd. Run along.
