I hear Nantes and I want to leave. The urge to go away and never return is at times very overwhelming. To drink a scotch and smoke my MCDs without concern for what might become of my health. To have no one in the world to worry or care for what might become of me.
The reasons not to want a family are tantamount to fire and a tree. They can both be quite beautiful, but together it is not beautiful. It is nothing but destruction and utter chaos. This is an attempt at reaffirmation in myself that I am sure what I do not want, or so I would guess.
Someday I will leave these places and maybe then I can be happy. You can always run from the wordly, but you can never run from the ethereal.
And here are a few words that I am quite fond of.
"I'll sing of the walls of the well and the house at the top of the hill
I'll sing of the bottles of wine that we left on our old windowsill
I'll sing of the years you will spend getting sadder and older
Oh love, and the cold, the oncoming cold."
Beirut - Cliquot
"Now that my ladder's gone
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the hear"
William Yeats
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