Steeds dichter

Uit verveling nieuwe schoenen gekocht, Desperate Housewife Tom reporting for duty.

The more we live, the more we become convinced of two truths that contradict each other. The first is that next to the reality of life all the fictions of literature and art pale. It’s true that they give us a nobler pleasure than what we get from life, but they’re like dreams which, though offering us feelings not felt in life and joining together forms that never meet in life, are none the less dreams that dissipate when we wake up, leaving no memories or nostalgia with which we could later live a second life. The other truth is that, since every noble soul desires to live life in its entirety — experiencing all things, all places and all feelings — and since this is objectively impossible, the only way for a noble soul to live life is subjectively; only by denying life can it be lived in its entirety. These two truths are mutually exclusive. The wise man won’t try to reconcile them, nor will he dismiss one or the other. But he will have to follow one or the other, yearning at times for the one he didn’t choose; or he’ll dismiss them both, rising above himself in a personal nirvana.
Pessoa (Soares), The Book of Disquiet, 232
My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Er huppelt een witte sneeuwbal rond in onze tuin. 

Dus de puppy is er en nu blijft iedereen toch gezellig thuis om er mee te spelen. 


typewritings #1 // (r.e.s)

Ik wil niets zeggen, maar vanaf morgen ben ik een week alleen thuis met een gloednieuwe puppy. 

Ochtenden.

dit deken over mij als iedereen niet kijkt.
de armen rondom mij als alles eeuwig lijkt.
in het duister vind ik licht, ontwaak ik,
nu haar schemer naast me ligt.

uitgerust en opgemaakt
aanschouw ik haar gezicht.