sunsets over the lietzensee in berlin
i've been counting the days. 47. forty-seven is a long time to be counting days. to discover the number of what-if's and why-me's that occur in that time period one must mutiply the number of days counted x a factor of one thousand. so let's see...47 days counted x 1000 = 47,000 what-if's & why-me's. 47,000. even now, that number seems miniscule in comparison to the clutter and noise that has been filling my head.
*sigh*
but the relief from such pains and worry is finally over. perhaps now i can proceed forward again with a clear mind, now that i can finally stop counting. how torturous this waiting can be. like a stand-off between me and the calender. i stare at it, asking the why's, how's, where's, when's, probing mr. calender for an answer. in return, all i get is a blank stare, days shown as an empty box.
those days on the calender which have already past, now are like boxes which seem to have opened up and spilled their contents all over the street...like a garbage truck whose bed has rusted thru and a trail of trash lingers for moments before the wind can sweep it away. the past contains work, sweat, toil, sacrifice, determination...i have filled up those days past with all these words.
the future dates on the calender, once were boxes waiting to be filled. with plans and dreams, hope and possibility, love and sincerity, with whatever it was that i chose for myself. once the counting of days began, suddenly the future was filled to the brim. but there was no room in this new calender for hopes and dreams, no room for plans. but rather a much different kind of toil and sacrifice than i previously filled the calender with.
anyhow.
the days of counting are over. 47. forty-seven days of long-awaited torture. the what-if's and why-me's have finally subsided. the horrible thoughts of what i am possibly capable of are gone. there were even voices from the past that lingered in my ear, whispering taboo words and making the battle within myself even greater. but now, it is finished. the calender can return to normal, where the past is filled and the future is empty.
hopes and dreams can once again abound.
"but when i was a alone i could be afraid. why should i pretend that those nights had never been, when in fear of death i sat up, clinging to the fact that sitting at least was still something alive: that the dead did not sit. this always happened in one of those chance rooms which promptly left me in the lurch when things went badly with me, as if they feared to be cross-examined and become involved in my troubles. there i sat, probably looking so dreadful that nothin had the courage to stand by me; not even the candle, which i had just done the service of lighting it, would have anything to do with me. it burned away there by itsellf, as in an empty room. my last hope then was always the window. i imagined that outside there, there still might be something that belonged to me, even now, even in this sudden poverty of dying. but scarcely had i looked thither when i wished the window had been barricaded, blocked up, like the wall. for now i knew that things were going on out there in the same indifferent way, that out there, too, there was nothing but my loneliness. the loneliness i had brought upon myself and to the greatness of which my heart no longer stood in any sort of proportion. people came to my mind whom i had once left, and i did not understand how one could forsake people. my God, my God, if any such nights await me in the future, leave me at least one of those thoughts that i have sometimes been able to pursue! it is not unreasonable, this that i ask; for i know that they were born of my very fear, because my fear was so great. when i was a boy, they struck me in the face and told me i was a coward. that was because i was still bad at being afraid. since then, however, i have learned to be afraid with real fear, fear that increases only when the force that engenders it increases. we have no idea of this force, except in our fear. for it is so untterly inconceivable, so totally opposed to us, that our brain disintegrates at the point where we strain ourselves to think it. and yet, for some time now i have believed that it is our own force, all our own force that is still too great for us. it is true we do not know it; but is it not just that which is most our own of which we know the least? sometimes i reflect on how heaven came to be and death: though our having distanced what is most precious to us, because there was still so much else to do beforehand and because it was not secure with us busy people. now times have elapsed over this, and we have become accustomed to lesser things. we no longer recognize that which is our own and are terrified byt its extreme greatness. may that not be?" -rainer maria rilke, "the notebooks of malte laurids brigge"