Today my lecturer said elephants instead of eloquence which made my day.
It was a rainy drizzly day, which postponed the run I planned, although I might head out for a short one before the sun sets (8.57pm) We shall see.
Sometimes I find it difficult to write in this space, because I feel like what I write needs to matter. And then I second-guess and strike out and edit and consign a post to the ever growing draft pile, in the hopes that some day it will blossom into something worthy. Ah, worth is so struggle-some. Why should I be worthy? I am just a collection of bones and flesh and blood vessels and strange facts and words (Nelipot, petrichor, tintinnabulation. If you dissected me these words would be wrapped around my organs.) and a little bit of an ocean of love trying to find its place.
I think I will go for that run.
I leave you with the scrap of a longer poem, the scrap I particularly like.
Enter a Cloud (WS Graham)
Gently disintegrate me
Said nothing at all.
Is there still time to say
Said I myself lying
In a bower of bramble
Into which I have fallen.
Look through my eyes up
At blue with not anything
We could have ever arranged
Slowly taking place.
Above the spires of the fox
Gloves and above the bracken
Tops with their young heads
Recognising the wind,
The armies of the empty
Blue press me further
Into Zennor Hill.
If I half-close my eyes
The spiked light leaps in
And I am here as near
Happy as I will get
In the sailing afternoon.
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