The Voice Within

When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it. When I pronounce the word Nothing, I make something no non-being can hold. Wislawa Szymborska (one of my favourite poets! thank you Sid for reading Szymborska to us as we sat with steaming cups of coffee on the mud floor of your home during lit block)

Ambi, thank you for introducing me to Grook's by Piet Hein! http://chat.carleton.ca/~tcstewar/grooks/

It has been raining for hours now. As I gaze at the only window in the room without curtains, I see myself. Did you think I was dropping a philosophical firework that is going to whizz and sputter through the rest of this post musing about how window panes when raised to a metaphorical plane can reflect the inner me? why ! of course not! All I am asking you to imagine is that its 12.21 am,(palindromic time !) the rain is pouring into the pitch blackness outside. Try as I may, I cannot see the drops of water as the tube light in the room creates a reflection of me and the room on the window pane.