harping on

Now that I can't touch the dust at your door,

The friends that I keep are cries and groans.

I'm a candle melting, my face drips tears.

I'm a harp: I make music from moans.

#1128: From Rumi's Kolliyaat-e Shams-e Tabrizi

I've still failed to start writing my NaNoWriMo novel. I feel too grumbly. And yet here is Rumi suggesting that I make music from those moans. Is that what writing is about? Expressing our eternal discontent? We seem never to be satisfied.

I dreamt that the mulberry tree out the back was growing excessively, sending branches forth to the back walls of the house, sending tendrils out to grip onto the house walls and clutch at this boundary between wild nature and civilized human habitation.

Kasha stared at her face in the mirror and saw no redeeming feature. The murky pools of her pupils nested inside yellowing sour cream intricately patterned with red rivers of weariness. Those once bright eyes were now dull with the weight of years.

I guess that's a start.