My tea cools beside me as i stare at the computer screen, uncertain what my heart and mind are compelling my fingers to reveal. I feel the familiar desire to write. Dare I fool myself into believing it’s the soft rainfall outside my bedroom window, or the fresh scent of this foreign soil when i know the urge springs from a deeper well: the faceless longing, the soulful search for freedom, the spiritual
quest to find my true name ...
It feels like years since this person inside of me has expressed herself. Like the muscles of an untrained athlete, my soul aches and burns.” Is this really necessary?!” my inner-self screams. I sense the futility. Can i break through the alliteration that labels me poet, the pithy sayings that call me sage, the quips of knowledge that tell me i’m a teacher - those paltry plaques that assign to me the title “someone”, when i’m really searching for the nobody - the person who
transcends this skin ...
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