Something I Wrote on 11 Dec 2011

I am fooling myself. I am in love with something that does not exist, that is not possible. I live in a city of brick and stone, but I belong in an old western, like True Grit. I belong on a horse in the sagebrush, riding all day until I am saddle-sore and hungry enough to eat whatever's in my pack. I belong by a campfire with my guitar where you can see nothing around but prairie grass and the occasional tree, but when you look up there are countless stars. Countless. I play my guitar to no one but my horse and my trusty partner, whoever he is.

But no matter how much I long and pine, I cannot go back to those glory days, of bullets and outlaw fame. Of long calico skirts and tie up boots.

OK... Maybe I don't belong there. But I don't belong here. Where do I belong?