A Pause For The Bones

The back garden’s under a thick crystal layer of frost, and it’s taking more and more coffee to get me moving in the mornings. In another month or so, the cold and damp will be in my bones. I recently read some Nietzsche, one of his books of aphorisms, which he describes, in a later work, as “a book which I started to write in Sorrento, during a winter when I had the chance to pause, just as a traveller stops, to look over the wide and dangerous land through which my spirit had wandered up to that point. This happened in the winter 1876-77.”

I wish I had time to pause. It may be the one real regret about life that I have — there’s always one more thing, or five more things, that need to be tended, to keep the wolf from the door, to keep the roof from falling in. I have silent, solitary winters, like this one, but I don’t get to pause.

I’ve seen a lot of people once again espousing boredom as essential for the creative soul, these past few weeks. I don’t write here as much as I want to because, most days, I simply don’t have the time to pause and think for the sake of thinking. Sometimes the hours fly by and don’t survive for recollection.

Even my dreams work for a living.

Reading: THE RUSSIAN COSMISTS, George Young (UK) (US)