Life can be ironical. Mine is. It's as if I'm living out the chapters from Winesburg, Ohio. It's where I endlessly roam. My yearnings an unheard scream. I am trapped in the teeming pull and push of it, fumbling along in the unbroken light. Fighting a torrent of wind that leaves the world untouched. Stumbling into misfits along the way. Ever blundering towards them, with them, for them - from them. Ever and ever, dividing lines, telephone wires.
We all tell ourselves one thing and other's another. Every step somehow a misstep. Every step a struggle. Every step gets steeper.
The horizon distant in all directions. Reminding, remaining.
We tell ourselves one thing.
Other's another.
Other's another.
.
