Achingly beautiful.

I'm a recent fan of Rainer Maria Rilke's works. My gosh can this man write!! See for yourself.

Love Song

 How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise it high enough, past you, to other things? I would like to shelter it, among remote lost objects, in some dark and silent place that doesn't resonate when your depths resound. Yet everything that touches us, me and you, takes us together like a violin's bow, which draws one voice out of two seperate strings. Upon what instrument are we two spanned? And what musician holds us in his hand? Oh sweetest song.

 Translated by Stephen Mitchell

 ---------------------------------

"Death" as a topic for casual conversation didn't bother me at all. I didn't mind 

talking about a certainty in life. It's bound to happen anyway.

At least that was before. It's been exactly 7 months since Dada passed on.

July 26, 2007 at 645pm to be more precise.  

I guess finding this poem was a blessing.. a message maybe? How serendipitous

that I was able to read it right now exactly 7 months after. Regardless of the

fact that I love writing about my feelings and epiphanies, I have never been able

to properly put into writing what I felt or am feeling ever since that day. I guess

actually writing it down and making it known to all makes the reality all 

the more inescapable.. or the more daunting reason which is that I have already

accepted the fact that he has left. I am bound to Rilke as of this moment.. his words were able to properly articulate

what I had and still am feeling. 

On Hearing of a Death
 We lack all knowledge of this parting. Death does not deal with us. We have no reason to show death admiration, love or hate; his mask of feigned tragic lament gives us  a false impression. The world's stage is still filled with roles which we play. While we worry that our performances may not please,  death also performs, although to no applause.  But as you left us, there broke upon this stage a glimpse of reality, shown through the slight opening through which you dissapeared: green, evergreen, bathed in sunlight, actual woods.  We keep on playiing, still anxious, our difficult roles declaiming, accompanied by matching gestures as required. But your presence so suddenly  removed from our midst and from our play, at times  overcomes us like a sense of that other reality: yours, that we are so overwhelmed and play our actual lives instead of the performance, forgetting altogehter the applause.   Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
 -------------------------------------------------
"I could shed another million tears, a million breaths,
A million names but only one truth to face." 
- A Thousand Years by Sting