So many are alive who don't seem to care

Rilke on longing, and a few of my notes

Photo by Embla Munk Rynkebjerg on Unsplash

You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don't seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it's not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.

—from The Book of Hours, Rainer Maria Rilke
.

My Notes:
There is a kind of soothing I don't know how to ask for. 
So when this world crushes me, which feels too often lately, I read the poetry of longing, mystery, and darkness, by the masters. 
I sit in the quiet of the coming night; breathing, offering, opening.
Reciting the prayers I was given by the vastness 
 before words bound us to the eternal ache.
Letting my weary mind, body, spirit, be swallowed entirely 
 by what I cannot comprehend 
  or caress.

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