The Rider by Naomi Shihab Nye
Hello, weekend. Crossing my fingers I get to write and not go back to my desk to work. Or maybe I should go out and see some friends, just to keep the melancholy at bay. A few days ago I have started another journal to talk about the creative process (ha! how pretentious) — well, my creative process, as an attempt to dissect myself and maybe understand if I have a method behind the madness. Been living in my head for far too long; I need to feel that I’m not the only one who’s like this. I feel that by talking about it, by forcing myself to face how I go about my life, then maybe I can learn how to gather my bearings once in a while. And yeah I started it because I can’t afford a shrink (heh), and I really wanted to see one.
Anyway. Here’s one of the loveliest poets ever:
Naomi Shihab Nye
A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,
the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.
What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.
A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.