Work

If I don’t get some, I’ll die; quite simply cease to be.
It doesn’t matter what it is:
It could be a bike ride or a hard run.
It could be a phone call or a confrontation.
It could be a garden, a poem, or a song.
It could be a baby or a man.
If I don’t get some, I’m gonna die. Doesn’t matter what
shape or form work takes: but it must be real –
real enough to make me tired, satisfied at the end
to have given myself to some purpose
I, perhaps, do not entirely comprehend;
humble in appearance, it must be real –
real enough for me to forget myself completely:
losing myself in the task, earnestly, steadily
pouring out all my heart, and using both hands.

walking in Kemise

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