Having written almost 100 poems in the poetry year, it is time to reflect. Reflect on whether there is some point to continuing, or writing at all. I think there is not, it has taken on a death of its own. There are few if any readers of this project, nor any need for its production in future mists of time. Sometimes one must try and fail, to find out the limits of one's meagerest talents. I am facing mine. I am also facing the limits of my age, where the roads and not the destination are the obsession of interest. Everything we write, I think is a giant traffic report, or hidden shilling for the destination.
But for that same reason, having died, in effect, there seems to be something in humming through a few more verses of this, the after life of Lillie Yifu. I won't make the year, but I don't know when it will stop.
The value of any steady practice of a skill or form is often seen only after it has ended for long enough to be able to look at it and see what reflexes it has bred and how those reflexes can be modifed and used. Practice breeds muscle memory, even when it's intellectual, and one needs to stop moving the muscles to understand what one has.
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