Tuesday, December 20, 2011

not knowing.

don't try, you'll find, was not your fault. the goal, reach out, the choice is yours to find.
design, you've got the life to guide. your faith decides, the world's your goal to find.
- amor fati, washed out


i keep trying to speak
but my words are stuck
like when the heart beats real fast
and the throat refuses
to do anything more than gulp in air
they won’t come.
and yet there is no silence.
never silent here.
always noise
of skin and bones rattling together.
and again.
i grab at my hair
and i try to scream
but no voice will escape me
i am the ghost of dreams past
and again.
dreamless, the skin and bones
will wither away
unthethered. unmoored.
lost in a nine-to-five series
of unimportant events.
and again.

and you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm.
no matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it:
it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. people will bleed there, and
you will bleed too.
hot, red blood. you'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

and once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive.
you won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. but one thing is certain.
when you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in.
that's what this storm's all about.

haruki murakami, Kafka on the Shore