Life is very long

There will be time, there will be time
for a hundred visions and revisions
before the taking of a toast and tea

Eliot's been on my mind ever since seeing the strange sweaty man with "Life is very long" tattooed on his forearm, supposedly from "The Wasteland" but actually from "The Hollow Men." Eliot, oh Eliot, with your bizarre faux British accent, with your learnedness and your allusions, your meaningless-meaningful word-sound collages, and sorrow. Melancholy, after all, is ever the popular tone, controlled suffering the pose, poetry more elaborate than prose.

Responsibility

Contemplating another withdrawal is at once exhilarating and anxiety-inducing, not unlike crane-climbing late at night, not unlike tugging off a shirt or skirt for the first time and wondering whether to be proud or ashamed, no, not unlike those things at all. And yet I suppose the consequences are greater when it has to do with obligations unmet, responsibilities intact, so many hearts yet unbroken, or broken and painstakingly mended.

What to do? What to do? The worrisome refrain is the chorus of the day, the month, the year. What to do? What to think?

What is this thing called life? This haphazard game of shortsightedness and regret? What is this thing that I hear of, whispered, half-muttered, mumbled and grumbled--this entity called Responsibility? It is such a long word. I do not think I can understand. I have not the ability to.