I was flipping through my journal this evening when I came across a piece of poetic prose (or perhaps its prosaic poetry, you decide) that struck me as quite apt. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and studying of the Enneagram lately and it’s interesting looking back over much of my old writing and seeing common threads of some very deep desires I’ve had for many years. The proem (prose+poem) is relatively recent, I think within the last year, though I could be wrong, and I had completely forgotten it. I don’t remember the context of writing it, but it struck a deep chord when I re-read it just now.
A deep yearning for beauty fills my heart
An unquenchable desire for what I cannot have.
But is this thing really out of reach?
Am I truly impotent?
Can my desire truly not be fullfilled?
I must believe that it can;
That or my desire is not ordered rightly.
Is romance out of reach?
Is magic out of reach?
Is aesthetic unattainable?
Is fullfilling toil an impossibility?
The irony is that I cannot have until I let go.
I cannot be full until I am empty.
But God how I hoard useless desires.
I don’t want to fall asleep and wash away
The bittersweet pangs of emotion running
Through my heart tonight.
If I drift into sleep this beauty
That I see in this moment will be erased from my heart,
And all will be black and blank when I wake.
I want to save this feeling somehow.
But I must not hoard,
Must not clutch.
So I let go.
Let what I am in this moment be,
And fully be.
And what comes tomorrow comes,
And I will welcome that for what it is.
I open my hands,
And most of all my heart.
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