Where I Lived, and What I Lived For

A poem doesn't have to rhyme. It just has to remind you of things and wring them out of you.

Are you a trick of the memory

Reading Cormac McCarthy is alternately feeling like you've seen through space and time to some holy truth and cracking up at shit like this

We grow up, we count up our little choices, we learn how to move safely between who we think we are and what we think we want. But then the wind comes from the sea, and we are blown into the night, like little birds, like leaves.

I don't believe in anything except this one thing: where you are. Everybody has a place: that's all I believe in. Whether you call it home or not, whether it is where you end up or where you started or somewhere in between, everybody has a place. Like where an animal goes to hide, to sleep, to die.

It’s about uncertainty, and the fact that there are no eternal givens in the world. Somehow, we have to make room for the things we don’t understand. We have to live with obscurity. I’m not talking about a passive, quietistic acceptance of things, but rather the realization that there are things we’re not going to know.