I hear
Kierkegaard saying, “I can’t be bothered.”
Life is toilsome:
greetings, pardons, sleep, awakened hours, nights, insights, pathologies, and instincts.
To move self from
what might be hereditary, in an effort to classify another. I can’t be
bothered.
He says, “Motion
is violence.” I say, it’s silence that becomes vicious—if and only if, thoughts
are unshaved, unkempt, free to go as they please—no greater weeping!
In doing
anything, I applaud it’s opposite, if not applaud, I agree it lives—and,
therefore, has a place to breathe.
I believe she
played naïve. One will do so, in winning approval.
I can’t float a
kite; I’d have to bring it down. I can’t kiss goodnight; I’d have to hurt in
walking away. I can’t be bothered … with lakes, ponds and oceans; I can’t be
bothered with Sadducees and Pharisees; no one person is complete, so I dispute
gently the laws of wholeness.
I can’t adhere to
what appeases a shortcoming; else, it reigns as absolute, no greater thought,
totally empirical.
I won’t be
bothered by a sensation, in a moment, that fades into a fleeting memory. If I
must summons it, if it’s not just present, then what am I convincing in self?
I can’t be
bothered with hypotheticals, a complete contradiction, each absolute—was first
a debate, or nature designated another axiom.
I can’t be
bothered to do anything, if to do its opposite, if to be consumed with doing
things.
The poet must
analyze the nature of doing, the fondness of the rose, the grandeur of
resistance.
