April is the cruellest month
Breeding lilacs out of the dead land
Mixing memory and desire
Stirring dull roots with spring rain.
And so it is in my city.
I thought it was over. What you fear is always what comes to pass. And if that is so, my fears have increased tenfold. Does it mean that the repercussions will be bigger, greater than I have ever known?
Oh the rain, it drops ever so gently; the wind, it blows so cool. And the desire awakens, like a rising Goddess, a Venus out of the sea, as in a James Bond flick - wet, underdressed, and someone who cannot be denied.
O Sea, this is your name.
And what's the claim to fame? That you are always proven right? And at what cost? To what gain?
And memories swarm, drench you in tears and that familiar sting.
And awakens wit and intelligence and sharp sarcasm.
Why are people so idiotic? Is it deliberate? Or are they unable to help themselves? And being as they are, knowing the nothing they do, why are they so full of it?
And why do I need this perverse, childish joy of putting them in their place and bursting their bubble of pride? I, who ought to know better and certainly try and be better.
Bad karma, oh we've had a lot of that, haven't we? And haven't we learnt nothing?
Do you remember nothing?
What was that he said so long ago, in another lifetime? "You are too smart by half, you are too smart for your own good. I will bring you no good."
Ah my love, ah my own. In me nothing is forgotten or extinguished.
Everything carries me to you.
When the weather in April drips rain (how can it rain in April?); when the fear is more overwhelming than the joy; when you know that you must live in the here and the now, but you are swimming, drowning in superimposed time and patterns.
I teach again, finally. And that gives little joy. It's only remembered grief.
I write again, with difficulty. And that is obscure and meaningless. It's only words trying to be intelligent and hide the half-wit I am.
Blue Funk? Oh no, my love, you don't know the half of it.