“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”

― C.S. Lewis (source: Goodreads)
Disappear (Photo by Twan van Elk)

Sometimes all I want to do is scream, break stuff, breathe. Sometimes I cannot break free from this hold life has on me. Sometimes all I want to do is run away. Go some place where no one knows me. Pack the few belongings that I need. And go.

You can come. Of course. I am not running away from you. Run with me, I want nothing more. Let’s leave everything behind us. Leave all the BS, all the falseness, the politics, the scheming, the strategies, the backstabbing, the fear. Let’s go.

Polly wants a cracker

Nirvana – Polly (Audio)

Somehow, these days, all my words seem to come out boxed in these concise, small containers. I call them poetry. You may call them ramblings. The words, they come to me, line up in front of me and make their presence known. I wrap them up, type them down, they get away from me and it is done.

So when that stream hit me, while the warm water was still running down my back, I knew I had to get out as quickly as I could. So I jumped, dried and ran, dangly bits dangling under the towel I draped around my clackity bones.

Now, here I am, trying to get these words on the screen – while my hazy gaze can still discern them (as long as I wear my reading glasses and I keep the laptop close enough I can do it) – as fast as I can, editing be damned (don’t worry, I’ll give it a once over before I’ll actually put this up on the blog).

And just as quickly as it started, it stopped. Halted. Lay dead. Became deceased. Like the parrot. No way to glue it back to its perch, no point. It would only fall down again.

Oh, but the rush. It felt nice. Really nice. I haven’t done this in a while. Is it like riding a bicycle, you think? Is it? Haven’t done that in a while either.

Maybe I should buy a bike.


Van Gogh was hard of hearing,
Lost sight of what was what
I see the stars but I can’t smell
The blue air, as cold as ice cubes
Clay sticking to my bones from
Digging for potatoes, buried
Way too deep, so tonight I won’t
Set the table, I will eat out
In the wretched town below, where
I wouldn’t want to be found dead