A Funeral In My Brain

by David Wemyss (March 2012)

I felt a funeral in my brain,
        And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
        That sense was breaking through.

A picture held us captive.

And I dropped down and down.

I hesitated to preface this essay with lines from Emily Dickinson lest the suggestion of irreducible disquietudes shifting almost tangibly inside her head should elicit the charge that I was drawing on Wittgenstein yet employing a very un-Wittgensteinian picture. But seeing the erroneousness of such a charge is to glimpse what Wittgenstein meant.

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