Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity
The Second Coming
WB Yeates
Of course this is only the first stanza, I steal, but I steal with purpose. The second stanza did not suit my purpose, therefore it remains undisturbed. The centre for my purposes is, in fact, me. I am not quite sure I can hold. I am not sure I want to hold. Everything seems broken, and I am not sure if anyone speaks my particular brand of English. However, I do not want your sympathy. I probably do not deserve it anyway. This collapse of the centre is, for the most part, self-inflicted. This wound may never heal. So good night to the street sweepers, the night watchmen, and the gate-keepers.
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I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move,
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove-
"Guess now who holds thee?"-"Death," I said. But there,
The silver answer rang,-"Not Death, but Love."
E.B. Browning
Do you think perhaps what you think is one thing may actually be something else?
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