Into my room I went, for a year and a day
books piled high, a mind obsessed.
Poured over them I did, for a year and a day
bent over, pencil in mouth, oblivious to the world.
Back and forth I changed, for a year and a day
one moment holding
of what was held before.
No closer to truth I came, for a year and a day
except it were success
to make a map of dead ends.
That which is contradictory
is impossible to conceive,
and so for a year and a day, my studies – for all I can tell –
were no different
than trying to imagine
the spirit grows, even in this labor,
so it is not wholly vain.
The mind gains a seriousness, a respect for thinking.
It becomes slow to judge
and eager to shine light on dark places
which it has not yet explored.
It cares little for authority
or ties to men
but rather seeks newness and solidity
and finds these more refreshing
than an army of arguments.
It also becomes able to stand
silent before the world
in mystery and awe
without demanding answers to an infinite set
which may or may not have meanings.
What was once a stony pillow of ignorance
has now become soft
Perhaps I should go and rest my head upon it,
and enjoy rather than analyze
the great wonder of creation
for a year and a day.