I had just planned to browse through this little book of Rilke tonight, least expecting that a few pages into it will leave me quite frayed.
And by that I mean — all ruffled feathers in a strange goosebumps-edly life changing way.
In his first letter to the young poet Franz Xaver Kappus, he tells him,
“…take refuge in those offered by your day to day life; depict your sadness and desires, passing thoughts and faith in some kind of beauty – depict all this with intense, quiet, humble sincerity and make use of whatever you find about you to express yourself, the images from your dreams and the things in your memory.
If your everyday life seems to lack material, do not blame it; blame yourself…for there is no lack for him who creates and no poor, trivial place.”
And by the time he told him to,
“Go into yourself and examine the depths from which your life springs; at its source you will find the answer to the question of whether you have to write. Accept this answer as it is without seeking to interpret it. Then assume this fate and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking after the rewards that may come from outside.”
I died an untimely death somewhere.
And I guess that was also the part where I get punned by that Instagram post I made last night, and say how ‘I’ll never be the same again’ thereafter.
‘What matters is to live everything. Live the questions for now.’