You Cannot Postpone Pain

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Abstract

As I grew, I always believed something strange and rare would happen, but all that came was the stupidity of a world become weary with dreams. When I return home to the harbour, I’m thankful for the rain and the Gray skies, gloriously Gray, offering no warmth and no expectation. I can sit in the café and write letters to break hearts, images boiling through my brain, and I think a great deal of trouble has come from that. The one thing I learned beyond doubt, I cannot postpone pain.I was never able to give my heart away freely. It was too dark. It was dark when walking in a museum, looking at Breughel. In my writings, its as if I wander through ideas, anything from bitterness to rancour, with a heart full of loneliness, but not who I am, not a man living with such soft things, the love that is a part of my life, the nature of this love, the furniture of it, things finer and softer than my temper deserves.I cannot simply bring my imagination to

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these letters written, because I lack that power, so I talk about what I know, the baker, the candlestick maker of childhood, the corner shop, picture cards, the house that is built with the signature of my father’s strength. I live in the middle of an orchestra playing my life out, so sentimental it catches in my throat like candy floss, then gone.I have come a long way down the page, stuffed paragraphs with nothing of importance, but gentle, rich, and winding to nowhere, like the lanes I followed across the island because I always wanted to go there. Today, that child adventurer, no longer solid of muscle, round of belly, more harassed, is not on good terms with the morning that has just broken, boiled egg and tea, in a place where no ocean touches land, and I went to bed absolutely sober.There is not much more to say here — I will try to say it more completely tomorrow, or when once again I’m looking out over the harbour.</article></body>

A Reverie

I wish I believed in struggle more — in its power to ennoble and enable and strengthen us. But I don’t — and I struggle all the time. I have never found what is at the bottom of human struggle, so I keep casting and cursing about the world like a madman. I recognize that I have not lived a life of boredom, or that my life has been one of perfect rhythm. I still believe in the harbour of my youth, somewhere with enough rain, enough shine, filled with a child’s deep tranquil joy. I don’t believe life teaches us anything, as an idealist I lost my ideals, I became more fanatic, madder still as I watched the world I believed in disintegrate with age. As if my world was a bar of soap, and it disappeared with use.

As I grew, I always believed something strange and rare would happen, but all that came was the stupidity of a world become weary with dreams. When I return home to the harbour, I’m thankful for the rain and the Gray skies, gloriously Gray, offering no warmth and no expectation. I can sit in the café and write letters to break hearts, images boiling through my brain, and I think a great deal of trouble has come from that. The one thing I learned beyond doubt, I cannot postpone pain.

I was never able to give my heart away freely. It was too dark. It was dark when walking in a museum, looking at Breughel. In my writings, its as if I wander through ideas, anything from bitterness to rancour, with a heart full of loneliness, but not who I am, not a man living with such soft things, the love that is a part of my life, the nature of this love, the furniture of it, things finer and softer than my temper deserves.

I cannot simply bring my imagination to these letters written, because I lack that power, so I talk about what I know, the baker, the candlestick maker of childhood, the corner shop, picture cards, the house that is built with the signature of my father’s strength. I live in the middle of an orchestra playing my life out, so sentimental it catches in my throat like candy floss, then gone.

I have come a long way down the page, stuffed paragraphs with nothing of importance, but gentle, rich, and winding to nowhere, like the lanes I followed across the island because I always wanted to go there. Today, that child adventurer, no longer solid of muscle, round of belly, more harassed, is not on good terms with the morning that has just broken, boiled egg and tea, in a place where no ocean touches land, and I went to bed absolutely sober.

There is not much more to say here — I will try to say it more completely tomorrow, or when once again I’m looking out over the harbour.