Playing Field

If I stood on the banks of the Lethe,
would I drink?

I know exactly what I want to forget,
but do I really want to forget it,
do I want to stop feeling the pain of it?

behind me the immense playing field of my conscience,
where good and evil sleep in each other’s arms
and joy and sorrow attack and devour each other till they’re obliterated

I need to think,
I need to start thinking at last

I don’t drink.



Write on Walls

Write on walls:
‘Oh Schopenhauer, it’s more than the will...’

it’s pain and mood-swings
...