The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
I believe in bokononism. It started as a joke but maybe it isn't anymore. I don't know. I believe in novels, stories. They're all I know. And they're also all I don't know, right?
A friend told me to read this poem a long while back and I just got to it. It's significant because my current thought project is solitude. I will write about it here, soon.