Back. Again.
The first time I found it easier to be home, and harder to leave. The second time I found it easier to leave, and harder to be at home, which I now realize is my second.
People are living, people keep going.
"People change, things don't."
The first time I traveled by moonlight;
The second time with the early birds.
The first time I slept after watching Houston wash by through the window into oblivion;
The second time I consciously closed my eyes before the bus started moving, and woke up hours later, pretending I had never been there.
Once upon a time, in a fairy tale warped by reality, he purchased a postcard humbly displaying, I assume, his favorite painting on the walls. Naturally, I favored it as well, but not over the one that holds both night and day. I remember: a hat similar to the ones afloat in the postcard was sitting delicately upon his tasseled hair, and his lopsided gait, like his lopsided hat, and his lopsided smile.
He physically looked different, he emotionally felt different. That is, the second time.
I looked for the painting on the wall, but it had disappeared, and was miraculously replaced by one that displayed only one hat. One hat that sat rigidly, perfectly upon a man whose back was faced toward the front. There were no eyes, no smile, no face. I walked out of the surrealistic world of paintings, following my companion into the next room of contemporary drawings.
People are living, people keep going.
"People change, things don't."
The first time I traveled by moonlight;
The second time with the early birds.
The first time I slept after watching Houston wash by through the window into oblivion;
The second time I consciously closed my eyes before the bus started moving, and woke up hours later, pretending I had never been there.
Once upon a time, in a fairy tale warped by reality, he purchased a postcard humbly displaying, I assume, his favorite painting on the walls. Naturally, I favored it as well, but not over the one that holds both night and day. I remember: a hat similar to the ones afloat in the postcard was sitting delicately upon his tasseled hair, and his lopsided gait, like his lopsided hat, and his lopsided smile.
He physically looked different, he emotionally felt different. That is, the second time.
I looked for the painting on the wall, but it had disappeared, and was miraculously replaced by one that displayed only one hat. One hat that sat rigidly, perfectly upon a man whose back was faced toward the front. There were no eyes, no smile, no face. I walked out of the surrealistic world of paintings, following my companion into the next room of contemporary drawings.