I want to write something beautiful.
I want to write something meaningful.
And perhaps that’s the entire problem.
Perhaps that’s why I never get to write
nearly as much as I think about writing.
Reality is just not that pretty.
And why write something
that doesn’t either reflect reality
or could become reality?
Perhaps keeping it real isn’t as boring as I used to think –
perhaps it’s the only way to get to say something
that is truly worthwhile
and could possibly stand the test of time.
I want to write about Lolland
because that’s where my heart is on most days.
Not about the beaches,
the dikes and the hills
or the lakes and the fjords.
Not per se at least.
But about the feeling of complete disconnect
from the rest of the world
caused by intense connection
with one single place
that assaults me
whenever I go there.
I will not use the phrase “go home”
because that’s too emotional
even for me.
I “go there” every once in awhile
to visit my family
and breathe that air
and walk that earth
for no particular reason.
At least no logical reason.
And so I cannot really describe it
because my mind is so
terribly logical
that it wants a logical reason
and balks at the lack of one.
I just “go there”, ok?
Every once in awhile
drawn
beyond reason.
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