Though I sit on the bed, with four walls around me, I am not here. Physically, these walls have enveloped almost four years of sweetness and turbulence. Through these walls by busy Bronson Ave I've spilled words. Letters, after letters collect themselves into words...to phrases...and sentences. They form images of memory. Or an escapism-
A creation of my inner reality. From dissonances, calamity. To cacophony of ecstasies. In my proses and poetries. But I do not seek agreement nor do I vouch for sympathy. These lines are mine, as they have always been. To release into the airwaves, for no other purposes than simply to release. Like everything else in life, there is a need to let go.
When I write, I let go. Sometimes a part of me. Sometimes nothing, but empty alphabets.
The inner I, sits by a dock. Lulled by a sea's breeze. Gazing into the distance, of a sun setting sky. There are no walls where she sits. Just vastness. But she knows, the time will come again. To face a different sky...
& maybe she doesn't know where she is going. Perhaps she may sail on a wafting yacht. Or find her feet in a foreign soil, hopelessly leaving her heart in places where nobody knows her name but she calls home. She has done so in the physical and inner moments of her life.
But she knows, wherever it be, she is on the right path & never alone. Even if destiny throws a detour worth traversing, they serve to direct and reassure. Not hinder. This she has learned, from the four years surrounded by four walls that accompany.
