I forget, but I do not forgive.
Outrages persist like old report cards, buried away in some drawer, their scribbled grades still unfair.
I set my memories free years ago. Today one returns, having claimed everyone's past in my name. Thirsty, and a little lame, but irrevocably mine.
Childhood is a time of unforgivable happiness.
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Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot -- And whether pigs have wings.
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2009
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May
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- A fanatic
- The Apocalypse
- Betraying Chopin
- On Cowardice
- Allegro Marcato
- Heartbreak - 1
- Hope
- A blurring of lines
- The search for transcendence
- Concentric Paths
- One Downsmanship
- The loneliest thing in the world
- Interpretation
- Coincidence
- Laugh about it, shout about it
- An embarassment of Rich
- Cause of death
- Cheating
- Prejudice
- The Game
- Troubling allure
- A beacon from Troy
- Everyday
- Suspicion
- Ashvamedh
- The Basics
- Confession
- Il Viaggio a Reims
- What's in a name?
- On Love Poetry
- Lean on me
- Notes on echo
- Life: Third Degree
- Marguerite
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May
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2 comments:
"Childhood is a time of unforgivable happiness." That sounds familiar, but it's all yours-- not bad, not bat at all.
Unforgivable happiness? what is that?
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