Wheeler Sparks:
…to swallow ground by bus and train and foot and still only just reach the crest of the wave where everyone else is headed soon, of course there is a sadness there. A fading sense of discovery. Where can we go to feel we have truly explored?
Time is marching on as it tends to do. Bad days are less frequent and more vague in their symptoms (yet today is one). I feel like so much of what I’ve written about here is about running away from then either into the distant past or into some more present present, like exploring geographic and emotional territories on my bicycle (actually the bicycle is the perfect combination of nostalgia and forward movement). Oh, and drinking. To some extent I’ve allowed myself all of this due to the simple fact that the pain of thinking about Margot–even typing her name–is so horrible, so vast, so overwhelming that I’ve had no choice but avoid it or be consumed by it.
But it calls like a distant wind. The trees rustle on the periphery and there is no stopping that invisible force, it will soon be on your face. And while it is sometimes a touch, this is Texas and it is usually a punch.
It seems that for her, and for her sister’s sake, I will need to turn and face it. I just wish I knew what that meant.