I had read a lot of poetry tonight.
Searching for truce…
This moment. The next moment to come.
Every moment.
Not the vain kind but one true,
the one without the ruse.
It was a messianic exercise to feel.
Choices proper; to live or to kill.
Dropping down words to read;
reading them aloud
like some inner tension of a seed.
.
I learnt to drop my desire, thwart a will.
Twenty times today.
He asked about it.
About the time to live, the time to kill
He said, "to be conscious is not to be in time." I jotted it down too.
Seeking temporalities in a body which lives
I mocked him the best
tracing on Descarte's doubtful conviction , his clichèd test;
But now, I had said:
“If it's a body , it's a noise that you hear and feel but know not if it means anything before it is dead” .
Acts at misprison
like a hooked cross freeze within birth, in the nest.
I think nothing.
I tell in jest: “To be conscious is to fix within the clock. Not a stop or a run or a leave or some infirmity from a pest;
that leaves you hollow before you hollow it .”
The noise and the body are the uses of my failings.
You know it already.
You pretend to sleep.
You look blind.
You stare at my face to live in haste.
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