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Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven’t got even that much, however loveless and boring – this is one of the harshest human miseries.

Wislawa Szymborska

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Boredom Human Love Misery Work

Bagwalas

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No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring.
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No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.
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I cannot imagine any writer who would not fight for his peace and quiet.
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It’s a well-known fact: in order to follow doctor’s orders, you have to be healthy as a horse.
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Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
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All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
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Something doesn’t start at its usual time. Something doesn’t happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared.
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You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.
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Whether you want it or not, your genes have a political past, your skin a political tone. your eyes a political color. You walk with political steps on political ground.
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Somewhere out there the world must have an end.
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Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.
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I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.
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I slide my arm from under the sleeper’s head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.
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Whatever inspiration is, it’s born from a continuous “I don’t know.
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Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.
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I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.
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