Wayward Mustang

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.    Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.    In time the curtain-edges will grow light.    Till then I see what’s really always there:    Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,    Making all thought impossible but how    And where and when I shall myself die.    Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse    —The good not done, the love not given, time    Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because    An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;    But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,    Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,    No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,    Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision,    A small unfocused blur, a standing chill    That slows each impulse down to indecision.    Most things may never happen: this one will,    And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without    People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave    Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.    It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,    Have always known, know that we can’t escape,    Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring    In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house. Philip Larkin.

🗞️Heron • ثمین

سیزدهم فوریه ۲۰۲۶ آرتور عزیزم، بزرگترین درد نه در از دست دادن، بلکه در هرگز دست نیافتن است. ما هیچوقت در خانه‌ای که رویایش را داشتیم زندگی نکردیم، هرگز یک دل سیر عشقبازی نکردیم و هیچ گاه نتوانستیم باهم یک وعده غذا درست کنیم. ما هرگز زیر نور شمع ننشستیم و…

🩶My dear: https://t.me/WaywardMustang

دوم ژانویه ۲۰۲۶ آرتور من، هیچ چیز خوب نیست. مهم هم نیست چقدر دست و پا بزنی چیز خوبی بسازی، از هیچ نمی‌توان خوب ساخت. هیچ هیچ است، پوچ است و تهش ناامیدت می‌کند. امشب دور همی نشستیم، همه چیز هم بود. شراب قرمز با نبات، عرق کشمش و انگور، چندین مدل سیگار، بال…

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