“Being an artist means,
not reckoning and counting, but ripening
like the tree
which does not force its sap
and stands confident
in the storms of spring, without the fear
that after them may come no summer.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke
The real reason I write
How can I put this? I dreamt Satan spat on me the other night. Not a regular demon or some fallen, confused angel. No. The father of lies himself, looking right at me amidst the crowd (..)
“It does come. But it comes
only to the patient,
who are there as though eternity lay before them,
so unconcernedly still and wide.
I learn it daily, learn it with pain
to which I am grateful:
patience is everything!”
