A couple days ago Alex sent me the poem “The Return” by Bruce Bond, and several lines resonated with me. In particular:
Long ago tomorrow was everything to me.
I loved it the way a small room
loves an only window,
the farthest reaches, the fever
of daylight as it rises and falls.
Long ago
I loved the future the way a wick
loves the fire that eats it.
Elegant and eloquent.
And as Alex said in our subsequent discussion, right now everything feels like tomorrow. Perhaps that would have been a better way to explain what I was trying to say yesterday about my frustrations. Tomorrow I will finish my manuscript. Tomorrow I will get an agent. Tomorrow I will be published.
It’s beautiful to always have something to look forward to (and work toward) but then again, it’s hard to always wait.
…
Another great line, although not relevant to my thoughts above:
Every morning the sun rose
on the jungle of who we thought we were,
what we lost, what we had become.
Even those who returned never returned.
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Oh … I love that!
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Driving on the freeway at night, lights on, leading a band of angels following a herd of demons.
Self actuatlization. The finish line, the goal, perfection, always just out of reach.
“Driving on the freeway at night, lights on, leading a band of angels following a herd of demons.”
Wow, what an image!
I was bowled over by the last quote.
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Sorry I haven’t been by in so long! Love the new look, very whimsical. I went to read the entire poem, but LJ is blocked at work…can’t wait to read it when I get home!
No worries, Krista!
You know how the Spanish say ‘mañana’ and postpone things? Sometimes that’s great, but at some point tomorrow becomes today :)
Anyway, I read your great comment on Floreta’s latest post, really impressed me :)
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