Walking Man's Road.
I'm hungry, weary, but I cannot lay me down;
the rain comes, dreary, but there's no shelter I have found.
I remember those lyrics still. My then sympathy has evolved into something more empathetic now. They were beautiful, tragic words then. Now they're more of a beautiful, tragic truth.
I do not pain for the things I need to keep my heart beating, my lungs from quenching themselves with air; my stomach need not ever growl. In all physical aspects, I am full. Filled. Sated. The hollow I feel doesn't exist here, although sometimes, it feels so tangible somewhere in my core. There is no earthly substance that can fill it.
I can't stop trying, though, as fruitless as I know my endeavor to be: trying to knock it lose or crumble its infrastructure with the pounding of my soles over pavement. Sweating it out of my pores; burning it out of the back of my throat by the laboring sting of my breathing. Filling it in with artificialities. Nothing works. It is living and growing, this hollow: somewhere, somewhere, untouchable, inaccessible, but scooping me empty by the spoonful.
the rain comes, dreary, but there's no shelter I have found.
I remember those lyrics still. My then sympathy has evolved into something more empathetic now. They were beautiful, tragic words then. Now they're more of a beautiful, tragic truth.
I do not pain for the things I need to keep my heart beating, my lungs from quenching themselves with air; my stomach need not ever growl. In all physical aspects, I am full. Filled. Sated. The hollow I feel doesn't exist here, although sometimes, it feels so tangible somewhere in my core. There is no earthly substance that can fill it.
I can't stop trying, though, as fruitless as I know my endeavor to be: trying to knock it lose or crumble its infrastructure with the pounding of my soles over pavement. Sweating it out of my pores; burning it out of the back of my throat by the laboring sting of my breathing. Filling it in with artificialities. Nothing works. It is living and growing, this hollow: somewhere, somewhere, untouchable, inaccessible, but scooping me empty by the spoonful.