I've calmed down a little since yesterday. If I think about it, if I remember how I felt last night, I still get angry. I still feel betrayed. I still want to lash out at Dirk. Am I overreacting? Was this a minor incident? All I know is that I think it was important.
But it was essentially a good day, even if it was raining so hard that it was practically falling sideways instead of down. I didn't go to work, Dirk came over, and it was basically a quiet day.
I found a section of a T.S. Eliot poem that I've fallen in love with. I sent it to a friend of mine a few days ago, but I'm not certain whether or not he liked it. It's from "East Coker", one of his Four Quartets.
O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letter,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark....
And cold the sense and lost the motivation of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody's funeral, for there is no-one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations,
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence,
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen,
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about.
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing--
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope,
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love for the wrong thing; there is yet faith,
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.