notes of a blue ink body ([info]mysneaker) wrote,
@ 2008-03-29 10:55:00
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a poem that I keep in my wallet, from Neruda's "The Book of Questions"
XXXI

Whom can I ask what I came
to make happen in this world?

Why do I move without wanting to,
why am I not able to sit still?

Why do I go rolling without wheels,
flying without wings or feathers,

and why did I decide to migrate
if my bones live in Chile?

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[info]wristwatch_eyes
2008-03-30 03:05 am UTC (link)
This comes at exactly the right moment for me.
I just signed the lease on a place in Brooklyn, and already, I am planning my next move after that. Always burning for the next neighborhood, the next place I'll feel comfortable enough to call home for a stretch of time.
The question I've been asking myself lately is why I seem to do my "best" writing by hand while I'm on the bus or the subway or crouched by the radiator to keep warm.

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[info]mysneaker
2008-03-30 02:27 pm UTC (link)
maybe because the desire to write comes from a desire to express the impermanent in that obsessive nearly psychotic act of remembrance..

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