#920 Untitled

From the ledger which I slowly shut I raise my eyes,
sore from the tears they didn't shed,
and with confused feelings I accept,
because I must,

that with the closing of my office my dream also closes; that as my hand shuts the
ledger it also pulls a veil over my irretrievable past; that I'm going to life's bed wide awake
unaccompanied and without peace,
in the ebb and flow of my confused consciousness,

like two tides in the black night
where the destinies of nostalgia and desolation meet.

We weary of thinking to arrive at a conclusion,
because the more we think and analyse and discern,
the less we arrive at a conclusion.

It dozes and grows calm.

It's my own,
fluid play,
a grandiose moonlit masquerade,
a silver and nocturnal blue interlude.

And I who am saying all this—why am
I writing this book? Because I realize it's imperfect.

Reductio ad absurdum is one of my favourite drinks.

To act,
then,
requires a certain incapacity for imagining the personalities of others,
their joys and sufferings.

Dreamed,
it would be perfection; written,
it becomes imperfect; that's why I'm writing it.

—Carlos Otto, Collected Odes