lonely evening in the office
When it comes to a certain level in one, pulling the blinds back to fill time up like an age ridden horse to gallop through deserts and other snow storms, to patch the old wrecks of another life coming forth to having hope in love, loving and giving not giving up, the futility of writing, writing to be heard? Writing in search of? What lies behind these stories, these lines weaved together to form platforms we could stand on and leap off into the boundless twirling sky. Other masks we wear, uniformity of conditioning the mind in the huts of this land, did you know they won an award for best housing conditions. I almost spluttered my coffee over the papers. One night I woke up having an image imprinted in my mind, I was rootless, I was drifting above the soil and there were neither roots to hold me down nor hands to hold me up, I was a root covered in grub and dirt imposed in mid air. I woke up frantic, and realized there were no networks in this city, this country that were tying me to them but they wove invisible threads into my dirt ridden flesh, and these networks are my history notes, their the slum flats of Asia to glistening white cars, you see two sides of the world a street across yet what can you do, what do you do. I picked up my drink and blew bubbles with my straw.