[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
Sunday, April 23, 2017
My luggage is ready; flights tickets rest in the bag; a taxy is booked in less than a hour and my kids are waiting for the goodbyes. It's time to run through the checklist, lock the parcel and go. There's no escape.