diary / by Edward Mullany


But enough about poems. What I really ought to be talking about is life, so that I can see, as my thoughts reveal themselves on the screen in front of me, as I type them, what those thoughts are, though I’m not certain I’d know where to begin if someone said to me, ok, now go ahead, speak, for one’s thoughts are often obscure, even to one’s self, and so deeply buried in one’s consciousness, and so dependent on other thoughts, which likewise are dependent on others, and so on, that what shows in their expression, as one gives them utterance, is not their totality, but only as much of them as one is able to grasp, and pull to the surface, as if one’s mind were a plot of land whose root systems cannot be fathomed, and in whose soil some things grow because they have been planted, and other things grow because they were there before the ground was even tilled, and yet other things grow because the seeds from which they originate were carried by a gust of wind that arrived from a long way off, and happened to deposit them there, which isn’t to say those things don’t belong, but only that their provenance must be traced if one is to establish how one ought to feel about them, let alone whether one ought to abide by them, or act on them.