I've just come back from a walk. I'm writing now simply to save a new set of emotions. Or a renewal.

I was struck by the solitude of the walk. The serenity. I thought of many things. Life. The past. The future. I wandered through the old neighborhood, and was a little surprised to learn that there were nothing there but ghosts.

For a few brief, precious moments, the poet's heart was alive. I was alive. And now I am here. Within the walls of their fortress. And I am nothing again. I am one whom they used to know ... and no longer fathom, and I know I will die if I remain here much longer.

I am reminded of something which happened today. It's nothing major. Just a moment. I had found a magazine which I wanted to read. And I felt a familiar touch. Or a sensation. I tasted the comfort of my old chair, which is now in storage, and had a bright desire to sit in it, and relax, and ponder the magazine at my leisure.

And I realized ... that it was not here. My chair, and most of what I am and possess, is in storage. There is nowhere here that I can truly relax. There is nowhere here where I can be myself. Even when I am in the building, I am in their building. I am sharing space with their things. And I am reminded, day by day, that I am going to burn down their building, or that I'm driving up their power bill with my heater.


There is nothing here for me anymore. Nothing. Even the rooms where I once wasted away are gone. Oh, they're there, but they've been painted. There's new carpet. There's new furniture. New beds. New curtains. The place I once knew and hated is gone, so even memories are pointless now. All I have and am I must contemplate within a room not much bigger than a king sized bed.

As I write, the television is blasting. They are talking. Trivial matters. Lo is breathing hard. Someone skating on the olympics has fallen. My mom is eating cold noodles. Loretta is coughing. And I sit here in the darkness, just off the beaten path, with the past month's existence scattered at my feet. Envelopes. Bills. Magazines. I think thoughts they care nothing about. I feel aches they could never fathom. And I write for no reason other than marking the moment and reinforcing the ache and renewing the dream of flight.

“I spread my wings in preperation ...
For flight I may never attain.”