centrifugal

slowly i arrive at a conclusion that though language is useless

for coming any nearer to what we essentially need and seek

and though it cannot do more than ex-press or ex-plain-and as such language is

as centri-fugal as we live- it is not language which is a disease

but us.

diary note

these were and are days with happiness

flowing unexpectedly.

i wrote a letter today, though as stupid as all love letters, i wrote from both sides:

the living me who wants to share life and the dying me who gives. 

they are complementary, it is my presence

in words-and in words it is stupid and turns into a ghost.