Poetry
If I Hang On Much Tighter My Hands Might Fall Off
A poem to placate impatience
Rome wasn’t built in a day but it was built. Great slabs piled high, stacked together, rolled up hills — Sisyphus would be proud — placing one weary foot in front of the next, focused on the summit, the peak, the rest station during circuit training for those thirty seconds where each puff feels like an oxygen tank unloading its burdensome contents directly into your lungs, but seasons change, blossoms bluster, Godot will be here before long and we can all find out why we come to this tree, so hopeful, so hopelessly hopeful we ignore hope burying herself beneath the mountains of rotting leaves upon which we wrote our words.
The process seems to be the same with all my articles: two weeks of hanging tight then the inevitable, ‘Not distributed in topics’.
It’s not a routine I particularly enjoy!
And now on a cheerier note, here’s Kafka to liven up the party:
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.
You never disappoint, Franz.
Read quadruple-curated Ming Qian’s guide to the curation process:
And here is a poetic rant on the topic by Chirag:
