Maybe the key to finding what it is you want to say lies behind the mirrors and in between somewhere in the mud. Nevertheless, I hold on to what I am saying now with wandering arms of mystery and managing myself more than ever. If my arms wandered any farther I would be between magic and mystery somewhere in the shallows of life holding my breath for the water to rise, but, instead, I am laying here with my arms closed wondering what to say. The articles of clothing that I carry belong to me. The harm to myself that I have gathered I own. My bag is long and follows me wherever I go, yet I cling to it rather than let it go. If I can carry it it belongs to me. If I own it it is because I have chosen my road, my way, and the things in it have wandered with me. If my life becomes this I have swallowed it whole-heartedly without an ounce of sorrow, yet, I see myself endeavoring, and it is a treacherous path of deceit and sorrows behing the shades of elms. I have borrowed it.
Posted on: Sat, 24 Aug 2013 03:17:07 +0000