And so, you bury yourself in your work; bury yourself in your home and your coffee cups, your music and your empty moonlit roads. You think about getting a cat, maybe a dog. You think about the serene islands of your being, in the quiet sea of your secret self. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.
You go back to your home and native land, where you go back to your daily grind, your visionary dreams, your fickle restlessness,
but you know that the part of you that matters most will be waiting, waiting.
The truth is a strange, elusive thing. Before it can set you free, it weighs you down. In accepting my truth, I have become bound to it and the stillness fills me with peace.
There is poetry in the truth I couldn't speak.