A back alley in my neighborhood
Spring flows through the open window. I feel the chill on my skin, the last trace of a winter that wavered and passed between fragments. In that darkness I had no premonition of what was to come: the violence, the doubts and hopes which trail away into the future.
At night I take solitary walks. My mind curls up into a warm embrace for myself and the promise I would give, against the wind. The passers by do not see. They brush past me and head towards their stop. A stop that cuts into the night--shaking it, teasing it, like a rocking cradle.
I live a different kind of life. In me there's only the quest for truth. It comes down to a still point of silence, of faith in the unknown. The fires are cold; there are chains everywhere, pulling me back to a time and space where you did not exist. I will not let go.