Cindanwe ' s Notebook Content . The sun listens to my greenness . But where did the moon frown ? The sky is empty of children , and the earth eats strawberries . Yet , why do the worms taste of bitter - plumb ? Everyone is bereft of spores . Or the spores have devoured us all and we are left with nothing . Or everything is inside us , though we find ourselves swimming in rock , where strange things remain , and known things fall outside of their own selves - let alone from each of us ! Why play the paintbrush against her ? She always stands close to being far away . And what of the farm then ? Shall it twinkle in the breeze of lyricism ? How should I know ? What I do know is this : the grass drinks flower dust like a glass bead swallowed tastes nothing like water . And furthermore , wherever one finds the absence of something , that something surely exists someplace else , or else how could it be absent . There is wisdom in this ! Yes , and everything has its place , and every place its thing belonging to it . It is the way of all things . Even those things misplaced know where they belong . They long to be . That is the whole point of belonging , is it not ? And yet we are never so lonely as the stars , as when we find ourselves possessed . Of love ? Of death ? Of what then ? Life ? But they call me Enemy , even as they exalt me . Yet even the wind is slave to the clouds . . . But the rain ? It bounces against the sky like apples in a basket , and for what ? What shall become of us when the pod pits die ? I would like to think that the bleak summer does not herald the death of the rain . But who is to say one way or the other ? If the butterflies make up the walls , how does one see inside a room at night ? Perhaps the room is already inside us and we are the ones who need occupants , and our occupants are the ones needing the light . But I digress . The spoon that slays monsters is always the last to enter the mouth , and the first to leave . Nor do eyes in the back of one ' s head mean that one can walk backwards . . . do the knees bend that way ? Do the shoes point heavenward ? No , we are stuck falling forward until we smash against the door of eternity . That is the essence of life . To be devoured in our own banality , though we wish to be something more . I love this life , but I hate the aftertaste . Like waking from a dream with someone ' s fingers in your mouth . How did they get there ? Whose hand do they belong to ? Whose hand do any of us belong to , really ? It always comes back to belonging , does it not ? It does . As the question knows the answer , the answer belongs to the question . And that is the whole point , I think : to know the question , and thus to belong to the answer . That is why I must write in this book . Everyday . Sometimes twice . The others are jealous of the windflowers that bloom in these pages . They desire to swallow the ink through their nostrils , tasting the bitterness of all that life has in store for them . . . but it is my life that belongs to me . Even as my house belongs to the things inside it . And insides belong to outsides , and outsides are never quite as free to do as they think they are . Always this . One thing after another , but not some things . Some things are better left where they think they are , not where they really are . Not all places are equal , nor all things belonging to the same spot . How could that be ? No . Surely not . When my sun shines through the moon ' s teeth , then it will be time . But not until . Until then I shall continue to smash my head through windows so that I might see . Where I am . Where here is . Where I belong . And all things being just so , so I be just . And justice is important in this life , is it not ? How else can a life be justified , but by this ? The sun is forever moving . I must get back to work . I am grateful I have this place to put my thoughts , lest they become lost and confused as I am ( though I ' ll never let the others see that . . . they think I have everything in control ) . .