moments of clarity

moments of truths

but the answers are hidden

they’re just out of reach


where you can hear them and see them and feel them

but no


just moments


sparks in the distance


that keep you hoping




hearing the screams of humanity

seeing the pain and destruction around

feeling the struggle of nature, the crumbling



comes with side effects

with truths

that hurt




hearing the tweeting of birds and the tapping of raindrops

seeing the true beauty of people and beings and you

feeling the magic in time and in spaces

and the inseparability

of all

and one







gives you this as well


moments of clarity

moments of truths

sparks in the distance




I wonder if guilt is ever of the right kind. Do we hurt because we hurt someone else? Or do we hurt because we fear we are the type of person that hurts people? One is empathy and care, the other is identity and reputation. Then again, maybe God or the Universe programmed that ache of identity because we were made for good, for love, for repair. Or maybe we’re just selfish little moles. I don’t know.
We dig into motive, into our own minds, and spin like a top. While a bug, a butterfly, knows only to look for flowers.


Jag oroar mig ofta över huruvida jag är en tillräckligt bra människa. Jag vet inte vem eller vad jag ska vara tillräckligt bra för, eller hur det egentligen ska gå till, och det är väl det som gör att jag oroar mig.

Det finns så mycket att oroa sig för. Så mycket som borde kunna vara bättre. Och även om jag utvecklas, och närmar mig det där bättre, så kan det alltid vara ännu bättre, eller bättre på ett annat (kanske bättre) sätt.

Andra är bättre. Och sämre. Och det stressar mig, gör att jag oroar mig ännu mer. Vore jag en bättre människa skulle jag ju kunna vara som de som är bättre och inspirera och hjälpa dem som är sämre.

Ja, ni hör ju. Vem är jag att värdera? Att uttala mig om bättre och sämre? Hur kan jag ens försöka? Gör inte det mig till en sämre människa? Eller gör det mig bättre – att jag bryr mig, att jag vill bättre?

Ja, ni hör ju. Det oroar mig. Det sliter i mig. Drar sönder mig. För hur kan man någonsin veta? Finns det flera sidor av allt? Finns det bättre och sämre? Vad spelar roll och varför?

 My brain melts with the world sometimes. Can’t process the news and the cyclical problems of humanity. It can all be so heavy. And I am a happy person. Maybe to a fault. I tend to find almost everything beautiful. Like a crazy person. Or someone on drugs. But it can gnaw at me, this guilt.
Then I read this poem. It helped me understand the balance of it all. That one cannot live without the other. It doesn’t lessen our duty to help, it gives help meaning. Read it:

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.

Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.

If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world.


To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite Everything.

We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

by Jack Gilbert