09-09-09

I am weary of this town.  My gate feels like bars and the incessant sound of cars into the night are like a lullaby to which I can never seem to fall asleep.  I don’t understand people who long for the city, for its lights and cafés and perpetual motion.  To me it’s the symptom of a soul that is lost and doesn’t want to be found.  I have walked on that open road toward the infinitude of an unmarked horizon and stopped to breath deep on freedom and felt the cool reassurance as it filled my lungs.  To watch the sun retire and the stars begin to fill that ceaseless expanse called sky and feel…small.  This town wants to take me down bit by bit and I, ever faced with this haunting specter of responsibility, feel that panic welling up in me.  This self-induced imprisonment gives me the illusion of control, but I know better; I cannot leave.  So I sit here, night after night and look through the narrow bars of my windows, past the rusted, whitewash of my gate unto a dusty street full of people on their way home from the mundane, meniality of a pointless existence and I have to fight back tears.  Soon…