Spitting

I feel sad, suddenly. It's settled on me out of nowhere and it is quite odd. I think I have never got over my grief, my grief for so many things. I don't even feel like typing them all out. I suppose I'm mini-venting. Okay, I know, an odd journal.

This poem is running through my mind and so I'll share part of it with you--I didn't type out the whole thing because I'm lazy.

Excerpt from "To shout in the ruins" by Louis Aragon

Let's spit the two of us let's spit
On what we loved
On what we loved the two of us…
I imagine
What is dark and incomparable passing between us
Like a dialogue of mirrors abandoned
In a baggage-claim somewhere say Foligno
Or Bourboule in the Auvergne
Certain names are charged with a distant thunder
Yes let's spit the two of us on these immense landscapes…
Where little rented cars cruise by
Yes because something must still…  
Reconcile us yes let's spit
The two of us it's a waltz
A kind of convenient sob…
A waltz of mirrors
A dialogue in the void
Listen to these immense landscapes where the wind
Cries over what we loved…
I remember a deserted village
On the shoulder of a scorched mountain
I remember your shoulder
I remember your elbow your linen your footprints
I remember a town where there was no horse
I remember your look which scorched
My deserted heart a dead Mazeppa whom a horse
Carries away like that day on the mountain…  
I remember so many things
So many evenings rooms walks rages
So many stops in worthless places
Where in spite of everything the spirit of mystery rose up
Like the cry of a blind child in a remote train depot