Eating My Questions

This is Love ... To cause a hundred veils to fall each moment ...

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Letter to a Young Poet

The story shall tell itself. In its own time. In its own fashion. With its own chosen words. For now, though, I live it. Live the story, and its certain questions which must receive answers. If we live our questions, will the answers become visible? What if I don't think the questions? What if I eat my questions, instead? Then what? Perhaps I should just stop asking that question. How do I kill that existential loneliness, which I feel each time I see my toothbrush, alone, in the toothbrush holder? When will I feel able to sleep in that bed? When will that room feel like the refuge it once held for me, and unlike the mausoleum it embodies for me, these days?

beautiful anxiety ~ the excessive noise that makes things tremble ... the small things in nature can somehow become so very huge and immeasureable ... great distance harbours such silence ~ how can we break this silence?  and, so, does the mind remain perpetually behind, ever astonished? well?