I am a misfit. There, I said it. I cannot recall a time in my life where I felt easy in this or any place. I observed, quietly. Slowly I learned to build a cone of invisibility about my heart and soul. I wrote poetry when young. I stopped then began all over when old. This review of English World War 1 poets resonates - as it stresses that the misfitery of the poet's heart transcends mere circumstance.
Friday, October 16, 2015
The sun glinted on the river. The water’s surface was still, but Simon could see deep currents telling lies about its placid face. The sun felt warm, delighting the cool breeze that touched his body. He could hear voices, calling, laughing, teasing on the other side. A house looked out from a balcony, added precariously by a home owner, holding figures happily touching and playing with each other.
I can't decide what to do with this paragraph. Another story, same character? Or one of the alternate versions of The Man who fell from the Sky'......Hmmmmm....... maybe that's it......hmmmmm