Thursday, March 3, 2011

I'm tired

I'm tired. But this is a good kind of tired. I had a very productive day. Now, I'm ready to go to bed and I feel light for some reason--even though I'm sleep deprived as usual and feel very tired. I'm beginning to think that even though I'm not a Protestant I have Protestant ethics. Work almost gives me the feeling of a religious ritual. When I work well I feel so light. Especially when I work to my physical limits, when my body starts screaming "Primary needs come first. Eat, drink, sleep," I feel like I'm more alive than ever. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a masochist. I do not enjoy suffering at all. On the contrary, I believe that we should listen to our bodies for they have more wisdom than we do. But work is not suffering to me. I find joy in my work not in my bodily suffering. I just like this feeling that I have done my best and I have given all I've got. That's what I like. Right now, I feel the earth spinning underneath my feet and I with it, I feel dizzy. What a sweet intoxication this is! Do you ever feel this way? Or, is there something seriously wrong with me. Well, please don't answer the second question. I'm not sure if I'm ready to hear your answer ^_^
A friend of mine had sent me a very nice quote along these lines but I cannot seem to remember it now. Anyway, if you know it please tell me. Meanwhile, a painting and a poem should do. Good night!

You Are Tired (I Think)
You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
E.E. Cummings

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