I want to live without seeing myself.
—Federico García Lorca, Song of the Barren Orange Tree
Almost. It’s a big word for me. I feel it everywhere. Almost home. Almost happy. Almost changed. Almost, but not quite. Not yet. Soon, maybe.
I’m still writing about you and you haven’t read a word.
I love the dark hours of my being
in which my senses drop into the deep.
I have found in them, as in old letters,
my private life, that is already lived through,
and become wide and powerful now, like legends.
Then I know that there is room in me
for a second huge and timeless life.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, from A Book for the Hours in Prayer
, trans. Robert Bly (via proustitute
In this poem you are by yourself.