Lost horizon

Posted by yseult on Jun 15, 2005 in Poetry

Where does my heart go when I am asleep?
Where does my breath leave to?
Where do the lost ones set their head to a last rest?
Where do the lonely ones get their sole purpose?
Where will we end and the new day begin?

Swept off to some distant dream’s horizon,
knocked down from the too far evening,
landed in this brilliant twilight between,
the here and the tomorrow…

Where did my heart go off to while I was sleeping?
Where does the night reach the morning,
and
where do the undreamt pieces of my everloving heart go?

You

Posted by yseult on Jun 14, 2005 in Poetry

If I could take you into my arms to show you the future,
If I could make us what you’ve dreamed us to be,
If I could be all the things you’d want me to…
I would not hesitate.

If all that is in this world,
all the tiny bits and pieces made to hurt us,
the greater ones, made to break us,
and the aches that crush us,
are to be conquered by this one move,
by me taking you into my arms,
to show you my inner world…
I would not hesitate.

If things were simpler,
plainer, maybe.
Where do we go from here?
Where will it all take us?
What is real?
And what will remain a figment
of our imagination forever?

If I knew, I’d probably cover
from my own bold thoughts.
But…
If there is the smallest of all hopes,
the nearest of all desires,
and the simplest of all words…

I will not hesitate.

ever moving

Posted by yseult on Jun 13, 2005 in Personal

The worst thing is actually to being an entry… *smiles* Can or should you start every single entry with an 'I was wondering…' or 'I thought…' as if anybody actually cared? As if anybody actually would listen? It goes with the situation, I guess. It's an illusion you have to construct to eventually write something… anything. And here I am talking on the metalevel again. Although it's something I don't like doing. Narcistic wounds and all…
Nevertheless, I was wondering today how sometimes we're visitied by old feelings we once coveted, experienced and then somehow lost. Or the feelings that we knew and that come back to haunt us.
I have no idea why, but I feel lost somehow. Like I was wandering through some wood and then lost my way. Broken even. Maybe it's a simple case of exhaustion and loneliness, maybe I am just being weary of myself. Maybe I am listening to myself too much or not enough. Who knows.
Maybe it's the prospect of moving again. Wherever I go, as soon as I get settled I need to move off again. I just wish I could stay some years in one place without knowing when I'll move on. Thinking of which, it recalls me the image of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini in Dante's inferno… condemned to ever move on and never settle down to cherish what they've got.
It's like being suspended in nothingness. Being drawn to things but never being able to sit down and actually contemplate them.

Once…

Posted by yseult on Jun 10, 2005 in Poetry

Once I was broken,
so badly that nothing could ever mend the rift within me
and the things claiming to support me.

Once I was frozen,
left out in the cold land between
the eternal and the unsaid,
surrounded by the one shadow around me.

Once I was nobody else’s grounding.
Once we all were brothers…
… once we were all but alone.
Once the trees were singing to our boldest hope,
Once the only unity to be found, was within us.
And once I was the strongest heart of all.

Once the last words were of tomorrow and the never setting sun.

You were the troubled spirit and I was your solace.
Once you were but a figment,
once I was just a dreamer.

And if I ever should have wondered,
how far the only purpose can stretch,
how deep the loneliness could reach
or
how loud the solitude could be…
I should have seen the answer in your eyes,
when the last look you shared with me was full of hate,
when the last words you told me were the cutting edge,
and the last touch was your hands pushing me off the cliff of our shared feelings.

Once, I was but a dreamer.
Once, you were the dream.

I’ve woken up at last, from whatever dream this was.
Woken to a perfect unity,
Wide awake in this rare beauty of final silence in the presence of another…

Dreams change and so do the ones standing beside you.

Writer’s Bl/Sh-ock

Posted by yseult on Jun 8, 2005 in Work

I got to taking about the sense and meaning of writing once more yesterday night and how revealing that has been…

I have always resented the post-modernist view that the text you write as an author, isn’t the same after being read by others. That the text, story or character somehow gain a personal life apart from their creator and thus are almost unrecognisable should the two ever meet again.
Apart from the fact that I always thought – and still do – that post-modernism is like Pop-Art a terribly overstated line of thought that tends to limit all things that have been and thus has a wonderful excuse not to produce something of its own, I have also gone through a thorough structuralistic boot-camp at University and both theories are like cats and dogs: nothing good can come out of the fight for power.

The talk from yesterday somehow set my record straight… or rather turned my categories upside down. My writing has one single objective: finding the right expression for the things I see. Detailed, overloaded, overcharged and as sticky as melted chocolate. I had somehow made the subconscious assumption that the more precise the expression and description would be, it would leave lesser room for an interpretation or understanding completely detached from what I intended.
I obviously thought completely wrong.
Things aparently do tend to develop a life of their own. Not only fail the pictures to trigger the right reference of response, they shockingly enough are not what I supposed them to be. If I go back to one of my favourite solitude quotes by Rilke – that we are desperately separated from one another and that sometimes bits and pieces of a stolen dialogue drop between us, start building up until obstructing every dialogue completely – one could easily adapt this to fit the ‘writer’s situation’.
If a text, a poem, a story, a description, even a simple line of a letter of encouragement is something you throw in the air and hope that the someone or the right person catches it, then the worst that can happen is that either it falls to the ground.
So probably not being understood the way you expected to be is not the greatest danger.
Maybe not being listened to in the first place is worse.

The only thing I am wondering about after this terribly cold shower, is on how this is going to affect my writing. Am I just going to stop? Since I have failed in being either original or precise enough to be understood? Am I going to undergo a sudden change of style, like when I started to work at the newspaper? Or is the the way you look at things and absorb them into your inner world the source of your inner speech and thus your writing? Can the style be changed at all without losing a complete range of subtlety?

Maybe we simply are, what we are and not who we are supposed to be. Maybe all the dreaming and the striving just comes down to this: me in this world, and everything around me.
Maybe Silence is the greatest enemy of all…