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Literature Text
Nora,
I understand now
why you held your secret alone.
Death is huge and grasping,
it rocks you, catches the end
of your laugh, turns it inside out.
Death is always secret and always
alone, though
your cello wept with your raging grief
and my words tear themselves
from my throat.
But I know now, you must learn to forgive yourself
your own simple, ugly,
inexplicable human
death,
and let go of dignity
to find peace.
I understand now
why you held your secret alone.
Death is huge and grasping,
it rocks you, catches the end
of your laugh, turns it inside out.
Death is always secret and always
alone, though
your cello wept with your raging grief
and my words tear themselves
from my throat.
But I know now, you must learn to forgive yourself
your own simple, ugly,
inexplicable human
death,
and let go of dignity
to find peace.
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Literature
Sonnet XXIX: An ending
The world bent towards the end I would have written
then like a harp-string snapped—the twisted threads
unwound, and all sprung back to what we had been
now I am gutted—and you, I think, are dead.
What use are harps when vaunting horns of silver
proclaim the world has ended; what for me
is left amongst the ruin and raging rivers
of blood and ash, and every tie cut free?
And yet—when your song wound through empty halls
and through your melodies all was reclaimed
I loved it then; that strain; its dying fall--
but tunes are lost, and only words remain.
Yes, only words remain. I cannot write
the wonder in your song—the
Literature
The Loss
I can't think I can't breathe I don't know where I'm going or where I've been or If I'm really here at all is this some sort of dream am I dead am I here does it even matter any more? I'm falling, falling, falling, falling I've hit rock bottom I've found a shovel I'm digging, I'm digging, I'm digging and I've hit gold and I've found riches but I don't need them there's no point in them so I'm still digging and I've hit oil and I'm covered in thick oil and it's dark and it disgusting and I can't breathe and I can't see and I can't do anything because I'm still digging and the oil is filling up my lungs and I can't breathe and I'm still digging
Literature
Loss of Memory
I forgot.
It is a tragedy that I failed to remember
just how fond I am of the naked,
waiting space on a man's neck
where his clavicle meets his throat.
It is just perfect for my mouth.
I can run my imagination, and my tongue,
along the inflexible structure under the skin
and then
delicately sink the flexible tip
into the shadowy curve behind it.
The slight tang and salty flavor
of his warm, now wet skin under my mouth-
I forgot how good it tastes, how superb it smells-
as I pursue the rest of his body with the restless
press of mine.
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I know for sure that at the end, the playful stranger who appears is not death but love.
~ Kathleen Norris
We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience
– Dr. Wayne W. Dyer
Perhaps passing through the gates of death is like passing quietly through the gate in a pasture fence. On the other side, you keep walking, without the need to look back. No shock, no drama, just the lifting of a plank or two in a simple wooden gate in a clearing. Neither pain, nor floods of light, nor great voices, but just the silent crossing of a meadow.
– Mark Helprin, "A Soldier of the Great War"
It's okay, to think about ending
And it's okay, to not even start
Put it away, wait 'til tomorrow
Put it away, and take care of your heart
Of your heart
- Earlimart
~ Kathleen Norris
We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience
– Dr. Wayne W. Dyer
Perhaps passing through the gates of death is like passing quietly through the gate in a pasture fence. On the other side, you keep walking, without the need to look back. No shock, no drama, just the lifting of a plank or two in a simple wooden gate in a clearing. Neither pain, nor floods of light, nor great voices, but just the silent crossing of a meadow.
– Mark Helprin, "A Soldier of the Great War"
It's okay, to think about ending
And it's okay, to not even start
Put it away, wait 'til tomorrow
Put it away, and take care of your heart
Of your heart
- Earlimart
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