'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
--From The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot
Undone from the mind down, inside in, restraints off, left with just me.
Tired of the battle, I'm thinking, it's easier, I'm thinking, to fight against chains, be fed by the noble cause of revolt, of versus, than it is to win.
What is lost in winning? Voice. What is there to say? Where does it go when there is nothing to resonate against. No purpose, fire, knowing so clearly what is wrong. Nothing left to make right means nothing left.
Without the push pull, the resistance of, the fight against, then who am I? To be here, invisible and inert, I don't exist, no not really.
Still, the odd rhythms pound my head, heart, early in the morning and in the quiet dark, reminding me that I'm not not. Maybe there is something left to say. Or will be.
But where then. And when?
I am thinking I'm not sure.
