( the breaking of dreams)

The coming of spring in a bleak mid winter.

( the breaking of dreams)

some forest


The daffodils are over priced in the plastic buckets at the supermarket. I buy some and cut off the stems and they die much faster than I hoped. I could add life enhancer but I don’t seem to have any and the supermarket ran out.


The same language that tires and exhausts all compassion. we speak, although silence would often hurt less as words echo about dusty rooms, finding places to hide and staying there watching and waiting to be found again.

How perhaps to allow the body to be free from such endless influence, a troubled sea of contradiction and influence unmarked by the weary conscious mind. To jump into the sea of the crowd, to allow ourselves to mutate and never to ask for a mirror. What to not see? The eyes are tired, the make up run, the clothes tattered and somehow still a grace.

. …

The man stands waiting to be saved in some troubled boat in silent turmoil of a sea where some evil spirit twists him and heralds her voice that one of us must not be saved. No one can be saved I repeat , we must help ourselves. A hand can be reached but we must help ourselves. The door is closed and the noise of the city marches on.

the boat man waiting to be saved


But hurt fades? a voice asks.

“As objects of contemplation, images of the atrocious can answer to several different needs. To steel oneself against weakness. To make oneself more numb. To acknowledge the existence of the incorrigible. ”
― Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others

The light on the flowers will fade, but for a moment they seem more beautiful than anything witnessed, these cheap super market daffodils, yet such source of strange delight.




Days of non sleep, restless fretful exhaustion, consuming, falling, dreams of some world I do not wish to know. The light comes now and the black out curtains have been lost so it will flood endlessly in.

“History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”
Maya Angelou


the end of spring

~ by beatricejarvis on January 27, 2013.

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