What surprises me is . . .

the mass of caring I have toward an object,

any object--it can be big or small . . .

emotion clings to it--I need it

must have it

it defines me--

and then, after a period of time . . .

it can be three months, a day, or a half-hour

the object

does not hold the mysteries to my desires anymore.

What a strange feeling!

to go from a state of anxiety, of constant worry over a thing

to not wanting it at all--

seeming indifference, nonchalance . . .

what happened?

what happened in the mind?

I'm reading Eugenio Montale's Cuttlefish Bones, translated by William Arrowsmith. Here is the first poem in the volume:

Rejoice when the breeze that enters the orchard

brings you back the tidal rush of life:

here, where dead memories

mesh and founder,

was no garden, but a reliquary.

That surge you hear is no whir of wings,

but the stirring of the eternal womb.

Look how this strip of lonely coast

has been transformed: a crucible.

All is furor within the sheer wall.

Advance, and you may chance upon

the phantasm who might save you:

here are the tales composed and deeds

annulled, for the future to enact.

Find a break in the meshes of the net

that tightens around us, leap out, flee!

Go, I have prayed for your escape--now my thirst

will be slaked, my rancor less bitter . . .