In days of despair I remember the promise of rest on an eternal shore; so I put on my shoes and pluck dust from my tattered cloak. I go forward one last time once more, and again. twf.
a quandary of memory
There is a Darwish poem about a place that becomes itself retrospectively, quietly where its image, its likeness in memory is stronger than the place itself. Dialectics, maybe a penchant for nostalgia but then, aren't myths our interpretation of history? Home isn't a landline the ocean wasn't blue, a gist is more than the sum …
The-Bleu-Bivouac 