cien palabras
28.
Down 281 and out 90, a quicker way to the west of my youth. Crossing a random lane, I felt as if I had shifted: broke free from a map wedged deep inside, mostly hidden, mostly unbidden, far from memory and intention, but so deeply embedded as to hold me, if not willing prisoner, at least wary traveler.
Those streets are gone: where they lead are gone: who I would have been is gone.
It was not loss I felt, not mourning: it was freedom, lighting out for the territories.
White moon over a bank of cloud: blue sky calling.
Down 281 and out 90, a quicker way to the west of my youth. Crossing a random lane, I felt as if I had shifted: broke free from a map wedged deep inside, mostly hidden, mostly unbidden, far from memory and intention, but so deeply embedded as to hold me, if not willing prisoner, at least wary traveler.
Those streets are gone: where they lead are gone: who I would have been is gone.
It was not loss I felt, not mourning: it was freedom, lighting out for the territories.
White moon over a bank of cloud: blue sky calling.
Labels: brown rice syrup, Parthenon, seafoam green
posted by murat11 at 12:18 PM
2 Comments:
Missed your SS post yesterday, so off to browse I went. Found this. I think it is just what I was looking for. Hope you had great hiking in the hills -- looking forward to your return.
Anno: This fits perfectly with the mood I felt Friday morning, 3 AM, when I woke in my cabin and decided to go for a ride into the hill country dark, listening to the (not always, but then) awesome KGSR out of Austin, laying down a great string of tracks for the road. All the other campers and chaperones off to sleep. Such a throwback to younger days.
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