Concrete and asphalt, the smell of gasoline and midday sweat, roads leading to and from nowhere — they whisper tales of people habitually getting lost, but eventually, inevitably, getting found. And it is this assurance that you can always circle back, this perpetual finding, if you may, that propels me to move along towards this unrelenting search for peace, or love, or goodness, or Home.
To borrow from Dalisay: Home with all its disquiets was wherever I found myself writing. And indeed, no matter where or who I am with, figuratively and else, putting down words is pretty much tantamount to maintaining equilibrium to me. Lest I deal with myself and all the thoughts in a stubborn swirling in my head, fashioning what I see into poems and those I love into fictional characters, I will never strike balance and feel the least bit sane.