A Portentous Silence

Thought of the impending silence,
grew loquacious to make up for it
and then wondered if there’s
too much rhetoric.
Ah, I’ve waited for life to
start up again.

Do you call this lassitude?
I wonder. Another form of
self-approbation? Yet I shall
deem what I write as that which
no one else could form the way
as you see it here.

Of what use I know not.

There’s something monastic
about writing, I thought.
I could be circumlocuting,
perambulating around so
much gray stone walls.

Silence portends, you asked.
Then when there’s no answer
where to look? Right here.


Hey guys I’m back. I’d been reading the letters of Iris Murdoch and getting stoked. For one she studied in Oxford. It’s a place I would have asked God to send me to. Why didn’t you, God? Yea I get such vicarious pleasure out of reading. It’s one step away from having the life you had wanted. Alright, many steps, I fibbed. I was just reading the part where she said: “Writing is the only activity which makes me feel ‘Only I could produce this.’ Whether or not ‘this’ is any use is of course the crucial question to which I know not, and may not ever know, the answer.” So do I have silent readers? No doubt reading and writing gives one such pleasure. A deep sort of pleasure. Depends of course what you read. Haha. It’s so satisfying that there’s no word for it…at least in English that I know of. It’s like being in the company of …Iris Murdoch, or whoever you’re reading. So for today write as if you’re in the company of someone.


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