Futility – you can’t write on your soul with a pen


“Words are not life, and therefore they are eternal.
Surely there must have been a serious reason
Why among all the languages of the world
Only the Gypsy language
Has no word for “to have”.
I make a note of that. But this is futile.
You can’t write on your soul using a pen.
-Ante Popovski (Macedonia)

“They heard me singing and they told me to stop/Quit these pretentious things and just punch the clock…” – Arcade Fire

I was driving along through the chilly November evening pondering the transitory, ephemeral nature of the written word. Now more than ever … perhaps something it is written somewhere, on paper, in the digital ether, but the writer eventually dies. So few will be remembered and so few will really be read. Especially now, there is such a glut of writing – good, bad – overwhelming either way.

However, I am struck by how bits and pieces do stick in the brain, creating an indelible impression. A line of poetry or a lyric from a song weaves its way into almost every moment, circumstance, event – meaning that a poem or a song represent something more than just what they are, carrying my interpreted meaning as well as the original meaning of the writer.

More than ever I am thinking about health, well-being and how my current situation is pushing me further and further from this. I admire people who cannot shut out the creative and artistic passions that force them to pursue such activities. I might be a bit too realistic for that.

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