From Dec 2023 to Jan 2024, I spent two months full-time writing. I want to remember this wonderful time of intellectual sparkle and passionate intensity by a poem.
My semicolon, myself
With my pen and my mind,
I have intruded everywhere,
Who said I can do that?
But my pen is a tender green sprout,
I cannot define,
a many-valued algebra is what?
seeking the soil,
in high-piled books, in charactery.
I forget the chinese word for logic,
and the english word for 逻辑,
so I try to bribe the uncertainty with rigor, with grace, with a good story.
Shall I continue to write,
and my mind flees,
and paces upon lean streets, desperate sunsets, and ragged suburbs,
but I languish willingly,
till I stand amid a crowd of stars,
Next day I see in mirror a shining morning face.
And then it comes, a flurry, a hail storm of thoughts,
I sit alone, leave them to flow to the tip of my finger,
my pen gleans my teeming mind,
like the full ripened grain.
Then again, I hear the hunger of my mind,
seeking whatever insights that may hold.
I mean,
explanations of myself, theories of myself,
a kernel that is untouched by joy or adversities.