Trust the hours.

But distrust anything

that robs the divine of your life.

Listen to the pulse of the battered clock, closely.

The hours have carried you everywhere, up to now.


The stone will start to breath.

The green growing grass will start to speak.

The earth will remember you,

and offer you her luminous place where

you can talk about your dreams and despairs.


The meandering walks and tinkering by the creek.

The countless hours reading Proust and Joyce.

To think whether you should eat roasted chicken or Chinese food.

To stop wondering about God, questioning about evolution, and in the between.

The uselessness will be something.


Harlow, Louis K. (1850-1913) (Artist) Courtesy: New York Public Library Digital Collections



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: