I watched the arctic landscape from above and thought of nothing, lovely nothing. I observed white canopies of clouds, vast expanses where no wolf tracks could be found. I thought about you and about the emptiness that can promise one thing only: plenitude— and that a certain sort of snowy wasteland bursts from a surfeit of happiness. As we drew closer to our landing, the vulnerable earth emerged among the clouds, comic gardens forgotten by their owners, pale grass plagued by winter and the wind. I put my book down and for an instant felt a perfect balance between waking and dreams. But when the plane touched concrete, then assiduously circled the airport's labryinth, I once again knew nothing. The darkness of daily wanderings resumed, the day's sweet darkness, the darkness of the voice that counts and measures, remembers and forgets.
Adam Zagajewski - 1945-2021
Always caught up in what they called the practical side of life (theory was for Plato), up to their elbows in furniture, in bedding, in cupboards and kitchen gardens, they never neglected the lavender sachets that turned a linen closet to a meadow. The practical side of life, like the Moon's unlighted face, didn't lack for mysteries; when Christmastime drew near, life became pure praxis and resided temporarily in hallways, took refuge in suitcases and satchels. And when somebody died--it happened even in our family, alas-- my aunts, preoccupied with death's practical side, forgot at last about the lavender, whose frantic scent bloomed selflessly beneath a heavy snow of sheets. Don't just do something, sit there. And so I have, so I have, the seasons curling around me like smoke, Gone to the end of the earth and back without sound.