Reading my old poems again brings great satisfaction. This is not something I normally feel, since it usually takes 2 years for me to be embarrassed of something I’ve written, and these poems were written way back then, from 2007 – now. The more recent poems are much better of course, having been tempered with experience and actual crises. You start to become more aware of objects and subjects and the difference between light filtered through the rain tree’s canopy and the harsh glare of fluorescent study lamps.
One is more easily motivated to put proper spaces in their poems with a typewriter. Although a typewriter is somewhat of an unwieldy instrument to own, it does have its advantages. I think everyone would do well to impute a certain (if artificial) permanence to the things they write, so as to curtail the output of the entire world to only things worth reading twice. There is not much more to be said, after all. One might flip through any classic to find the exact sentiment he wishes to express already articulated 70 years ago, and better put to boot.
Thought for the day: How does one draw the line between narcissism and realism in expecting more of himself than others? On the one hand you run the risk of thinking more highly of yourself than you ought, by giving yourself more stringent expectations; yet on the other hand it is simply foolish to expect laymen to produce the same result or to share your wealth/dearth of experience.
The office is empty today what with everybody clearing leave. The mindless clacking of the keyboard and the hum of the vacuum cleaner are the only sounds that fill the air. Perhaps these two combined are loud enough for me to sneak in a game or two of minesweeper. :D