SOMEDAY MAY NOT COME

“There is surely nothing other than the single purpose of the present moment”. – Yamamoto Tsunetomo

You’ve often told yourself,

“Someday, I’ll stop making excuses and begin making things happen. Yet, I’m still too young to get into anything serious now”.

”Someday, I’ll take total responsibility and stop blaming others when things go wrong. But because of my irresponsible parents, unappreciative friends and dishonest associates I am in such a predicament”.

“Someday, I’ll start doing my very best in any endeavor and make use of my full potentials. Presently however I’m too uninspired to exert so much so I’ll just wait for that spark to motivate me”.

“Someday, I'll finally come to terms with the value of time and I won’t waste any more moment on unproductive activities. But for now, I’m too busy having fun. These worthwhile things can wait, anyway”.

”Someday, I’ll manage to have a more positive attitude and see things through a brighter perspective. If only now, things start getting better.

“Someday, I’ll be more caring, patient and be more forgiving. If only people around me will be more considerate to me”.

But have you asked yourself,

“When will I commit to these?”

Reminder: If today you won’t, that someday may not come.

THE JOY OF WRITING by Wislawa Szymborska

Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will Xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lifts her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she picks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence – this world also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word “woods.”

Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they’ll never let her get away.

Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.

They forget that what’s here isn’t life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof’s full stop.

Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence becomes endless at my bidding?

The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.

- From “No End of Fun”, 1967
Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh