Homespun webs of significance
Not being accustomed to complaining, I am struggling to match feelings with words.
Not wanting to write myself into a victim, I'm reluctant to write anything at all.
I am too aware that linguistic representation reproduces, permeates, consolidates,
too scared to make a premature idea real by articulating it.
But on the inside, a whirlwind of competing thoughts, desperately fighting for domination.
And if I don't take charge, who knows which one will win.
What were the choices that I made? Were they honestly my own?
Did I opt for glory over passion? Reshuffle over effort?
Are short-term and long-term really opposites?
What was it I wanted?
Sometimes when you look for answers, all you find is more questions
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