Saturday, October 08, 2005

What Drives Me

8 October 2005, 12:44 PM

Alone at the reservoir

It’s been a while.

Even so, I am tempted
to run away.
October has been kind,
but my southwestern blood
rears its head again, and
the chill in the air is
almost too much. Fantasies are

stripped away-
into reality I
plummet; from all I have
been accustomed to holding
true and good and tangible
I am removed.
All that is left is


I don’t know who I am
today; who holds the pen;
who longs for…


I don’t even know
what she wants; I don’t know
how to ascertain her needs,
her desires,
her reality,
if it is, in fact, reality.

I am only cold;
both naked and far
from it; I take my leave
of this struggle- from which
I cannot take what it would
more willingly part withal,

except my life…
except my life-

accept my life
and its contentions; all
I cannot see or taste
or touch, but which drives
me nonetheless.

"You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal--except my life--except my life--except my life." From Shakespeare's "Hamlet", Act 2, Scene 2.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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