17 December 2001

(This was actually written last night. Writing stops the bleeding.)

I'm on the road. Firelight dances across the page as I write. From my room I cast my mind's eye out. Somewhere rain falls and runs in rivulets down speckled, green mountainsides. Somewhere striking, bulbous thunderclouds float out over breakers, kissed by the sun. Somewhere there is happiness. I know it's there. It's been brushing by me like a stranger in the crowd.

Somewhere it is warm. Somewhere people are at ease.

I sit in my room, watching the candle dance on the wall. I can't shake off the cold, or the rust and steel feeling that Chicago always gives me. It's been an endless stream of Sundays, days and days in a row.

I know there's more! The sun is on the other end - the winning end - and I am down on the cloudy bend. It's early summer in Madagascar, the Island of Rainbows. Here it is perpetually November.

I don't feel alone right now. I haven't been forgotten. I hope I can sleep and stave off the pain and uncertainty that keep stabbing me awake. Bo and I, with Kerri and Brian, played tonight. I felt down, and you could hear that in every note I played. The songs all went on entirely too long, 'cause once I escaped into the solos, I didn't want to come back. I think I play better when I'm down.

How did I stray so far from the path? Or am I on it?
Did I write my story? Am I just playing a part? I hope I can see myself through this!

Love is the highest order of the universe. There is nothing greater. There is nothing more perfect.
There is nothing more painful.

I am sad, but I am living. I am trying. I am on the road.


Post a Comment

<< Home