mood piece

Comes a time when one might realize that it's high time to think toward nothing. Even emotion becomes a too-weighty and decadent extravagance. Comes a time when one is numbed and subdued by the way things are ephemeral -- as if Nabokov himself had become netted by an ineffable dryad.

Time has an eventual way of revealing most spirits to be water escaping the human grasp. Space has a way of closing off the bruised and weary into private regions within itself.

Then...poetry enters. As a new form of time and space. As a when and a where one might experience the most peculiar mode of being -- language -- as a something peculiar even to itself. As a transforming of dream and nightmare, of ambivalence and loss into noble, tolerable substance. Yes, the aesthetic moment has a way of draining wound of exigence, of lending to isolation a muted quality of contentment.