autumnal loneliness, or: ad te quid scribam nescio

a description (descriptive, not appellative nor appealing) of a time of thoughts that don't fly out of the mind like birds fly out of a nest, thoughts that rather may fall down or fly a bit after all:
(you got to stop operating with this indirect, implicit knowledge. the thoughts that fly out of the birdsnest are a quote of course.)

the way it tires me when people say they don't flinch.
oh really, i wonder, are you not. well then, if it makes you happy.
(what are they trying to prove. - why this need to say this.)

can't sleep and thinking of writing at night, 1,5 - 2h of pottering about, that's the time it normally takes after which you'll be able to sleep again. it's probably ok, something one can live with, of course it would be always nicer if it wasn't like that but then again you can just as well do something useful... so you write a little. a few words. then some more, sleepy: title, italics, place, publisher, or the other way round. fuck i don't care. bibliographing will be your downfall one day, you see it coming. all those different systems and the way everyone has their own ideas on it.
house is silent. except for the mice rummaging around. that does spook you sometimes, the sounds in your house. but then it's just mice. what i am really scared of is that the rats come in one day...  (today, this morning you discover the mice have eaten your breakfast which you thought you had put somewhere they can't get to...)

the problem of pain and then pain not as the - singular incident - but as that what is always there, the companion, the - thing that tells you what to do: live in a way to feel the pain less. avoidance and the way it is not always a bad thing. and meanwhile you just read. lenau, still. and slow. i am amazed by how much it grips me. 
a recent tendency to read older books, 19th century and before. maybe a result of tiredness with the contemporary and some accompanying dismissal of complexity. i've not given up on occasional contemporary brilliance, just can't cope with the discussions anymore. i can't really see how someone like lenau can be discussed and be done justice to in what can be called this current literary climate. so it's better to stay away (also to protect myself from becoming too bitter). it's maybe anyway always been like this, some things can't be said aloud. better to keep them quiet. slow. the privacy of some words.

Du hast mein Herz zurückgeschüchtert, ich glaube nicht, daß es je wieder so vertrauend sich Dir entgegenwagen wird. Ich werde Dich ewig lieben; aber ich werde mein Gefühl verschließen in meine herbstliche Einsamkeit. Lenau, ?.6.1936

what i love most about this quote (which describes a withdrawal moment), the painful endearing way he made up this word: zurückgeschüchtert which is something like shy away but this sounds so much more crude. and the other thing: how this isn't properly dated and they added the questionmark in the date to indicate this.
it's a bit like this, isn't it. some autumnal loneliness for protection. a sanctuary for the treasures of your mind. i have only my autumnal mental colours....and i feel indeed protected by them. this reminds me still and again of this importance of colours for me and how i still haven't thought this through properly.

a positive form of jadedness, some heaviness, but also serenity, looking up. only not in such an obvious way.... the lightness is the unexpected. 

but then also, cicero to atticus, you thought, another way of saying: i don't know what to say: ad te quid scribam nescio:

Terentia tibi et saepe et maximas agit gratias. id est mihi gratissimum. ego vivo miserrimus et maximo dolore conficior. ad te quid scribam nescio. si enim es Romae, iam me adsequi non potes; sin es in via, cum eris me adsecutus, coram agemus quae erunt agenda. tantum te oro ut, quoniam me ipsum semper amasti, ut eodem amore sis; ego enim idem sum. inimici mei mea mihi, non me ipsum ademerunt. cura ut valeas. data iiii Idus April. Thuri. (translation)

and you thought you need to do some more practising of the old languages, you don't want to forget. and the way people laugh at you for doing this. it's as if you're making a political statement, it of course has nothing to do with you probably actually liking grammar. it's never, correction: often not about the things as such, but as how they perceived to be. being interpreted in such a malvolent way has increased my tendency to withdrawal. which is something that always has been strong in me, but it's getting stronger maybe... of course, once solitude is boring you got to get out and see people. but not so often anymore.

I passed as a wanderer through all those parts where this language is found [peregrino, quasi mendicando sono andato], nearly begging, and against my will I have shown the wounds of my fate which are very unjustly blamed on the one who is wounded. In fact I was a ship without sails and without a rudder, led to different ports, river outlets, and beaches by every dry wind that accompanies the pains of poverty [veramente io sono stato legno senza vela e senza governo, portato a diversi porti e foci e liti dal vento secco che vapora la dolorosa poverta].  Dante - Convivio 1,3.5

so the older (as it feels there is less time) i get the more i realize this importance of solitude. i cannot really do without it. which i think has also to do with the pain, i cannot sort out my pain in too much company. my not surprising general difficulties in coping with people, old wounds that, of course. not to be taken personally. really. everyone's got their own story. you plod on anyway. people often tend to think you have this malleable personality. then they tell me: you've a soft shell and and a hard inside. if you say so, i say. if it makes you happy to think about me this way. what does it matter anyway (what do you think why it's gone hard - ἔκπληξις) you got to survive somehow. of course, that's too simple and boring, a form of wittering as self defense (and all the interesting stuff happens on the side). you plod on regardless. it just all doesn't do justice. not to them, not to you. so you just plod on. maybe some (partial) justice may be found on the way, for them, for others, for you. and if not. then not. and meanwhile you just read. and plod on. to some extent my resilience was always founded on discipline. the meanwhile is really important. it's like the parallelfoundation to creativity.

i am happy with my books. i have enough to read. enough to write about. enough things to think through. i just don't want to be bothered.

(do i have enough solitude?)
   why are you still alive?