"The brittleness of glass does not consist in fact that it is at any given moment actually being shivered. It may be brittle without ever being shivered."
I read this in my philosophy book and it struck me. I had to write it down. And send it to two friends to whom i write letters on occassion. It's a dying art.
Its potential...which i've been thinking about in the back of my head recently. I want to fufill/am in the midst of fufilling life potential. Fitness, intelligence..etc. Every bit counts.
Every moment is the defining of you, yet fufillment seems to come with time and effort. Like a cool fog arising from the sea, or some similarly tenebrific yet illuminating and appropriate image.
I wrote a poem in response to that two sentence quote in the book. For the hell of it.
Huzzah to fufillment.
No I'm not hard of hearing,
just not that endearing,
of the terms
and conditions
You've conditioned in me.
I can let them now go
let the memories
die
out.
squirming and retching
yet always progressing
from old tortured sin
like shedding dead skin
i shed abstruse tears,
trailing the way from a desert tundra past.
the joys and the sadness
you don't feel it all now.
just aloof calculations
Roughly too, what is seen.
its practicality,
Mia,
dear.
...It actually pins exactly what I'm trying to convey and what I'm feeling. For those of you who know Mia dear, you know the horror that is her face. And yet the anonymity...which is part of the horror. What human could be so utterly without individuality?
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