To write
to write one's life
is to take a road that leads nowhere
and yet parallels the totality of one's existence
To write one's life
is to evoke a silhouette
that of the writer rushing through his past
One cannot tell where he is going
as he detours diverges deviates
but that is why we want to follow him
Along the way like a lost traveler
he picks up pebbles from the ground
and stuffs them in his pockets
As he gropes backward he loses himself
but we are willing to be disoriented with him
willing to be lulled by his vain repetitions
Stranded in time with him
we lose ourselves in space with him
and yet everything holds in place underneath
as if pulled by a magnet
All that was absent
forgotten from his life
is now suddenly present again
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
To write
to write one's life
is to take a road that leads nowhere
and yet parallels the totality of one's existence
To write one's life
is to evoke a silhouette
that of the writer rushing through his past
One cannot tell where he is going
as he detours diverges deviates
but that is why we want to follow him
Along the way like a lost traveler
he picks up pebbles from the ground
and stuffs them in his pockets
As he gropes backward he loses himself
but we are willing to be disoriented with him
willing to be lulled by his vain repetitions
Stranded in time with him
we lose ourselves in space with him
and yet everything holds in place underneath
as if pulled by a magnet
All that was absent
forgotten from his life
is now suddenly present again
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