A life in diaspora

My thoughts are scattered, and so are all of us, strangers in a strange land we call our own. What is home? A place where the aching stops a while, that hurts and heals like May new growth.

Insomniac Fugue

These thoughts chase themselves like interminable Bach, some mad organist at sea lost with one short score in endless inventions. The cantus runs like this: this ocean will swallow you; it runs on forever the same, and you are already lost. Your friends are scattered and none will find you here, and where love burned once the wick is broken. Begin to forget whatever you knew, whatever you were, and long for the calm fetal dark of the ocean's womb.