What Happens If You Are Unemployment

last lesson ç_ç

Two words, as they are exhausted. I need to stop spinning like a top @.
@ But I wanted to copy at least part of the text that we read yesterday about writing, at the end of the last, beautiful lesson in the course of writing.
I'm thinking of doing something very masochistic about it. But I come back to, like come back to the course ...
now aspire only to the couch *-*


But alas, it does little with verses when writing too soon.

should know how to wait, collect, and possibly your whole life long, sense and sweetness, and then, at the very end, you could probably write ten good lines. Because the verses are not, as people think, feelings (that you buy early), are experiences. To write a verse must see many cities, men and things, you know the animals, we must understand the flight of birds and understand the gesture with which the little flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to itineraries in unknown regions, to unexpected encounters and leave provided from time to days of childhood still indecipherable to parents who were forced to hurt when they bring a joy that we did not understand (it was a joy for someone else), to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many heavy and deep transformations, to days in quiet rooms and libraries and to mornings by the sea, the sea, especially in the seas, to nights of travel that went with a high noise and flew together to the stars - and still is not enough to think about all this. You have to have memories of many nights of love, no two are alike, cries of pregnant women and mild, white mothers sleeping that heal. But we must also have been close to dying, you have to be sat next to the dead in the room with the window open and noise intermittently. It is still not enough to have memories. Must know how to forget, when is too much, and have great patience to wait to return. Because the memories themselves are not yet. Only when they become blood in us, look and gesture, anonymous and no longer distinguishable from ourselves, only then can it happen that in an exceptional time rise from their center and flows the first word of verse.

[Rainer Maria Rilke, "The Notebooks of Malte Laudris Brigge" ]