By Johanna Skibsrud (From "I Do Not Think That I Could Love a Human Being" without permission)
It was, then, the way I like it best:
made, as I was, by weather, so aware.
By the contrast of the sun and cold,
each so separate on my skin.
It's nearly always like that.
In the excess or the absence of a thing that I
appreciate it best. The way I wish I always
could. By plunging myself deeply into it, I mean,
and taking up, within it, all the space I can.
Looking back, it's just, there always seems to be more
room within each moment than, originally, I'd thought.
So that it's only, then, in retrospect, that I
explore each moment, truly; only then take that great pleasure,
and that's so sad.
That I do that - and, I do.
Imagine my moments, as I first possess them,
to be so small that I just splash right through,
and don't notice at first, or particularly,
the space available to me there,
which only later I realize I can fill.
In light of this, I want always to
live as I have lived on board this boat.
To be, always, like this: tired when I sleep,
humgry when I sit eat, and when I love I want to love
as recklessly as this: when I've been,
in my loneliness, desiring.