Is what I tell myself sometimes. False. The preceding amalgamation of letters spaces and improper punctuation are all a testament to the otherwise. I am searching un-hurriedly for a poem I once read by Keats. (I’m pretty sure it was Keats as I was reading a lot of him at the time I stumbled upon it, but it could have been someone else.) The poem is about how the writer feels the need to put things down in the physical to prove his existence long after he has departed. It has stuck with me in on of the corners of my mind; the concept just hangs out quietly and reminds me every once in a while how much it hit me when I first read it.
While quietly mulling over the need to write, and the feeling of not being able to write anything intelligent, or thought provoking I have stumbled onto one of those ‘snake eating it’s own tail’ situations. I read it, I got it, I write about it. Writing lead to reading which lead to writing… and so on and so forth. I love it. So in the event that you find yourself lacking something to write, read! Here is a poem I can quote verbatim, and that is unusual so it must be good 🙂
|I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth,–the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms.
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
– Emily Dickinson