Lately I've been rereading Rilke.
He spoke to me once this summer, when I was alone and hungry and penniless on the train, and with the Gobi and the Huang Ho river as my only companions. I read him for so many times on that train ride to Beijing. Two days, he was my food and water. Two days, he told me how to speak with the Gobi and Huang Ho. Two days, he told me how to let go. Two days, he told me that it was alright to let the questions go unanswered. That in my own sweet time I will eventually get my answers. Two days.
Now he speaks to me again. Turns out that I'm not that pretty fucked up. I guess, I have Rilke to thank for.
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