She described his eyes like drenched violets.
From where did she gather her inspiration?
When she woke in the morning, what motivated her?
I sometimes wish I’d been born in that era.
I sometimes wish I could live in this one.
Instead I am most alive in pleasurable sensations.
or painful ones, the absence of sensations
leaves one feeling numb.
The current way of life
has more bars around it than in her century,
and yet she needed to escape it
less than six decades in, but was she escaping
the time, or was time escaping her?
Her thoughts were not meant for the
common reader, and today the mainstream
flow of ideas is so common and lacking in that
passion which flowed so freely from her clenched fist,
as she gripped the quill in a mad flight
of passion, and let the words fly from her
purpled hands like a flock of birds set free.
She wrote outside her century,
to such a degree that she still exists
in this one, more alive
and relevent than if she had
She described his eyes like drenched violets,
and I can see him walking elegantly
up the path leading from the garden,
a fist full of freshly picked chrysanthemums
and a sprig of delphiniums sticking out
from his ear, like a blue fish,
swimming in the wind
from under the brim of his decourous hat.
Imagine that, she wrote of a woman
and described her like a man.
Together they walked the dogs across
the English countryside, and found
a quiet spot on the grassy hill,
a shaded corner from which they could seek refuge
from the intensity of the sun,
a place where they could allow their affections to flow freely
while engaging in unrepressed laughter.
One was forty the other a decade younger,
but in those simple moments,
the chasm of age and time,
that which leaves the crease of bitterness and
betrayal, of broken promises made to onself,
to float off like the ashes of a cigarette,
when one inhales the potential
of the mind, beyond the limits of the body
and the restrictions of the hours.
Here in this world, the schedules suffocate,
as much as they may motivate,
more so do they tend to
annhiliate one’s vision.
Yet there they sat in careless laughter,
staring off into the wide open
whose only concern
was to mind the seasons,
mind the sun,
the waves of simplicity
whilst marvelling at the
way one’s eyes could resemble flowers
glistening in the morning dew.
Virginia Woolf & Vita Sackville-West