The point of meaningless.

musee de beaux art

Poem for today, Sunday, football on the telly , though that is not the suffering that I am feeling right now.  I need to kick start myself out of a calamitous spiral which will end in tears, although I seldom cry, my tears are nearly always dry.  I hope you read the poem, and go back over it.  It is really quite marvellous in an understated wry sort of a way. I don’t know much about Auden, but this poem suggests a similar outlook on life to myself, rather too realist to be comfortable.  As T S Eliot said ‘Humankind cannot bear too much reality’.  I want to bury myself in some worthwhile pursuit to hide from a world that overwhelms and disappoints.  My problem is lack of applicaton.  I am a flibbertygibbit. I flit from one thing to another without becoming adept enough to be pleased with any outcome.  Ahh well, I shall retreat to the bookshelf, to the solace of the poets, to the oblivion of the novelist.

Enjoy the week ahead, and let me know how you manage reality.

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