Last night I asked, out of the blue, then again, maybe not: Am I doing the right thing? S. told me with a sigh: It’s not about being right or wrong. Perhaps the question is, am I happy?

Are you happy, she asks me. I said, Eh. She tells me, The thing about you is you’re sure when making your decisions. And then you forget. And then you fret, then fall apart.

Today, in an exercise of existing: my hand in my dog’s fur, a full glass of water on a hot afternoon, statistics that measure performance on a page, a new chicken recipe for lunch, and giggling, just giggling. Full-bellied laughter is a joy, but that small sound which rumbles through my body and outs itself like a secret—that was a surprise.

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved
Nazim Hikmet

it’s 1962 March 28th
I’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
I don’t like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird

I didn’t know I loved the earth
can someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it
I’ve never worked the earth
it must be my only Platonic love

and here I’ve loved rivers all this time
whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
European hills crowned with chateaus
or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
I know you can’t wash in the same river even once
I know the river will bring new lights you’ll never see
I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow

(from Poets.org)

I miss you. I miss your letters. I miss your laughing eyes, your naked back. The time you told me to rest my head on your shoulder so I can fall asleep. The time when you said you want to make love to me all day. I think of you all the time. How you are probably out on the water now, embraced by the sea. It was always closer to you, you know, closer than I will ever be. An archipelago of kisses separate us. A continent of regret. A whole universe.

You told me to let go. To move on, because there’s nothing for me if I choose to be with you. I haven’t gotten there yet. I can’t leave. I’m still living.

On Living
Nazim Hikmet

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example—
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people—
even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees—
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery—
which is to say we might not get up
from the white table.
Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast…
Let’s say we’re at the front—
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We’ll know this with a curious anger,
but we’ll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let’s say we’re in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before the iron doors will open.
We’ll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind—
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet—
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space…
You must grieve for this right now
—you have to feel this sorrow now—
for the world must be loved this much
if you’re going to say “I lived”…