Spring is here, the crisp touch of frost is gone from the air and nature will once play again the symphony of life.
They say a hidden thing lives in each thing.
Yes, it’s itself, the thing without being hidden,
That dwells in it.
But I, who have consciousness and sensations and thought,
Am I like a thing?
What is there more or less in me?
I’d be happy and good if I were only my body—-
But I’m something else, too, more or less than only that.
What thing more or less am I?
The wind blows without knowing it.
A plant lives without knowing it.
I live without knowing it, too, but I know I’m living.
But do I know I’m living, or do I only know I know?
I was born, I’m living, I’ll die by a destiny I have no say in,
I feel, I think, I move by a force exterior to me,
So who am I?
Am I, body and soul, the exterior of some interior?
Or is my soul the consciousness that the universal force
Put in my body to be different from other bodies?
In the middle of everything where am I?
My body will die,
My brain will fall apart
Into an abstract, impersonal, formless thing,
I’ll no longer feel the I I have,
I’ll no longer think with my brain the thoughts I feel are mine,
I’ll no longer move by my will my hands I move.
Will I cease like this? I don’t know.
If I have to cease like this, being sorry for ceasing like this
Won’t make me immortal.
The worst thing about spring is road construction. They are already blocking everything.
April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again
June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.
August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old.