Archive
01/16/09
Traveling to Myself
One more Friday night, I find myself mired in myself, In the Park Lane's all-but-empty dining room Overlooking New York's gloriously glowing East Side — Those monoliths looming, benignly, over Central Park.
Why I felt compelled to travel so far from home, Just to be alone, in a city where I'm not known at all, Baffles my retarded sociability. All I can possibly assume Is that a profound disconnect has misguided my spirit.
Although, in my sixty-eight years of existence, I've been no stranger to emptiness's occupation — That void, in my cold, silent cosmos, Where identity is subsumed in the rawness of being And being is consumed by the aging mind —
Tonight, I realize that I'd travel to the moon, If doing so would release me From the loneliness inherent in my aloneness. Only, the moon, being at peace with utter solitude, Would have no patience with my self-indulgent woe.
01/16/09
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