I long for myself; for the time when I was without the need to be. Anything. An open horizon, sun and oceans, an ocean away from where I stand: terra firma. Due in part for my inadequacies as a human being, and the voices of others who told me what a man was suppose to be. I long for myself; for the time when I was without the need to be.
I run outside myself, looking for a chain, a path that leads to me, an ephemeral being that I can't find in the real world but that I feel intensely within, a being in communion with the world around me and paradoxically, with nothing.
These searches take me nowhere; except to a sea of men and women who think they are and that know it all. They are exhausting, these men and women. Bending my ear, wanting to be heard, desperately trying to validate what they think they know.
All I know is the stress and confusion of being.
