and we begin, again

a new year, a new blanket of blank days stretched out before me; a field of snow, glaring white and printless, spotless. and all i can think about is my desire not to mar it. to leave it blank, unspoilt. is that why i collect journals and sketchbooks and most of them are empty? i promised myself i would write something every day. for at least an hour.

this day is almost over, and i have been reading for more than an hour, trying to think of something i would write about. trying to write about something other than the things i have been thinking about.

i found this.

who is a poet

a poet is one who writes verses

and one who does not write verses

a poet is one who throws off fetters

and one who puts fetters on himself

a poet is one who believes

and one who cannot bring himself to believe

a poet is one who has told lies

and one who has been told lies

one who has been inclined to fall

and one who raises himself

a poet is one who tries to leave

and one who cannot leave 

- tadeusz rozewicz, translated from polish by magnus j. krynski and robert a. maguire

and really, how could i write something, that says more about what my year has been and what this year will be, than that? i cannot.

but i can try again tomorrow.