Labyrinth: the invisible intertwining of one road-path-lane to another, which then turns to another, and so on, till one encircles the system, and then, on a whim, veers straight into the middle of the first, and moves along with it, before branching off to another, an entirely new circuit, which did not exist before, but is now the very real ground on which she walks.

Her existence was written on this dust long before she willed herself astray but she is here now and that is what matters. Here she finds the breath of beginnings, the revivals of second comings and refuge in the going. This is however not the end, even though for every beginning there must be an end. For her, ends are not foretold.

But that is not the tragedy. The tragedy is that she knows where she came from and, despite that knowledge which few possess, is certain that she can never return there. The labyrinth has consumed her. She is an exile to herself and so has to travel on. Without end or beginning.

I find,

The glitter of her teeth
Is directly proportional
To the width of her grin
And a narrowing of chin

Also,

She has shallow sparkling eyes
Of raw want and feminine whys
Like cool blue in crimson skies
Like black nights and fireflies

And then,

The softness (and so innocence)
of her wheat-and-marble skin
Belies a surprising ability
And a fine propensity to sin

i go

i go
into nowheres
into surging silences
into fathomless expanses
lonely as an ocean
i row

now
limited
limitless
now
i go
i begin to know

I have finished reading An Interpretation of Murder, a murder mystery novel. It revolves around Sigmund Freud's visit to the US in 1909. Good writing. Ambitious because the author is also a Shakespeare nut and so tries to weave many extras into the plot. But still, it made me turn the pages and that is the only qualification of a good book. No prizes for guessing where Joyce ranks on my scale. Eliot does not count in it because he's a poet. The only exception is Malcolm Lowry and if you ever read Under the Volcano, you will know why.

Lately, I have begun to read and like historical fiction. Bernard Cornwell's literary merit is trash, the history is suspect because his sources are usually another book (it's called a secondary source). But he makes the period easy to imagine. I liked his King Alfred books but his Sharpe series, which made him all his money, are an embarrassment. Robert Harris, an ex-political editor of a UK broadsheet, has written a book called Imperium, a biographical novel of Cicero, Rome's greatest orator and politician. Fantastic book. Couldn't put it down.

we break no more to this silence
which empties to no pain
we are today resilient
we kneel to no gods
no furies chase us into us
we allow them nothing
our furies are furies no more

we are free, if not together
you are me, i am you
separate perhaps but forever

depression anthem

The sky rains curdled tears
Wrenches out my scarred soul
Holds it aloft for me to see
My countless nameless fears

Only the gods can explain my shame
Yet they laugh with ruthless abandon

These are horizons which extend and expand to tomorrows, land so broad and so green and so open that to be here is to be free. Here there are no hints of mountains, lakes or oceans or rivers or gutters or streets or people, just a forever carpet which is light green, the colour of wet grass, but which is not wet, only moist but whose moistness is like fresh breath, the smell of first rain and which is soft to walk on, as if you are walking on velvet. The sky is blue but now it turns grey and then dark black but it is not a forbidding black, it is the rolling of the monsoon, this wind is laden and even if you imagine grief in it, it is a wind which does not intrude; and these dark black clouds roll furiously and pass by with enormous speed, sometimes stooping to touch the soft velvet ground and then rising to kiss the heavens.

I walk under these rolling clouds, my hand holding yours, and my fingers entwined with yours, our heat mingling, our elbows apace and steps as one; we walk into the arbor of a tree whose branches and leaves multiply with incredible speed. It is a magic tree, for only by magic can something so imposing, so huge that it is a forest by itself, arise in this wide horizon which was till now spotless like the expanse of galaxies. We walk into its shelter and then there is a shower of flowers and as these flames of the forest descend in scatters, my hand and your hand, they reach out and we collect stars

All hearts open, close

Because evening is the hour of sadness
The time of our melancholies
I welcome the certainty of night
(and its blackness)
Which comes with our raging despairs
(or is it mute. are our despairs mute)
I still welcome the absence of light

In all that I seek I seek me
I give chase to my shadow
And even reach it
Touch it, feel it
But
There's nothing of me in it

All that comes goes
All hearts open, close
Thrum and throb
Beat and break
Where does it all begin
Why does it all end
Who knows
All hearts open, close