An Ode to Traveling.
Dear Sarah Shu,
Where lies America?
Can it be carried in the hearts of rogues, such as myself, tentatively exploring a world which has become much more global?
…If America has become the mixing pot, do the ones who have left it behind carry a new recipe, or perhaps, …do we possess some of the original substance and heart, or , ….- are we just menial splatters of a culture moving and mixed too fast?
If America was formed by foreigners fleeing that which they thought wrong and those seeking the promise of unbridled opportunity-than- have I found my voice at last?…,-here-,… have I been saying as much without realizing it….is it time, at last, to choose my words and actions so carefully?
What I mean to say is,
That is,
Is,
Was I escaping something, …or is it that I had something to say?
Isn’t is a question every traveler must answer if they are to continue their path?
It’s January.
For the city, the snow becomes an ugly interminable gray, but here, it remains pure and comely. It testifies who has trodden. As I head to my apartment there is yet one set of footprints; and as in snow one is often tempted, I make notice of my snow prints, of the future of the past, and of stepping back into the present. One becomes
hopeful one’s path has become a little clearer.
Future sick.
Incidentally, where is the elevator taking me? How many floors does it go up? And, can I come back down?
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