Each cavity of uneasy moments is full with the splinters of present tense. What could have been a joyride has become a bumpy insight into one’s own recess. Threads, beautiful threads of my back years, have turned into Medusa-hair. The boy is grown, the dream is gone.
Or, is it just that I have not willingly allowed myself to be a part of the circus in town?
I close my eyes. Tired and battered within, how I want to harmonise with the words of a consumptive youth, how I desire to touch the lips of easeful death with my fingertips.
And yet, life keeps whirling about. Like the wheels of a toppled cart....