Ramblings of a disturbed mind

Flying back and forth, year after year, one might ask me what I find, or what I leave behind. There is a certain compulsion in moving, just as there is in being rooted to the same spot. Once I thought that movement would enable me to reinvent myself, and I suppose it did. Reinvent, but not re-imagine. There are people along the way, and people almost forgotten. At times, I wake up calling their name and they do not respond. Have I become this old?

I do not know which way is backward and which is forward anymore. People look at me and wonder why I am standing still.
"It is not me," I say.
But they claim the world isn't spinning. I will not see where it begins and ends by standing still.

We want to be loved, but it is difficult when people don't have anything to hold onto. I look at the literary greats and all that they seem to want to do is to chase out the voice. So that the clamour will stop.

Is that what we really want? Solitude and quiet? Others must know that we exist, though. Else the solitude is lost. It starts with one person, and then a few, and then we want the whole world to hear. How do we make ourselves heard? How do we separate ourselves from the echoes?

It is comforting to know that people believe me to be disturbed. It is the only way I can fit in - the only door left open to me. I fly from side to side, from place to place, backwards and forwards. Without moving, but ending up somewhere I have never been.

"But no," you say. "You are returning from whence you came."
"I have nowhere else to go. The problem is, it isn't really there."