Tuesday, February 13

My Own Heart

I woke up this morning, having slept overlong, with tears on my face and my pillow all wet. I thought perhaps I had cried myself to sleep (what over, I wanted to know!) but then I remembered my dream: one of my sisters had died and I was the one who had to arrange the funeral and be put-together. Talk about a nightmare.

I haven't left my building all day today, but I have been getting work done. Lots of work. But not enough work.

One of my favourite and most awesome profs from my previous uni and I have exchanged e-mails. I still need to keep up a million other correspondences.

I want to work well and hard and do good things, but I can't even understand what it is that I need to know . . . there will never be enough.

I can never do enough.

Before I begin to root around for some eyeliner and a studded belt, let me give you some Hopkins (because the man just rocks). The last line still confuses me but I think I get the rest.

My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size

At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather--as skies
Betweenpie mountains--lights a lovely mile.

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