“We are what places let us be. Color. Shape and Motion. Truth is we are never really free.” OES.
Place. We are all held captive in a way by the places we have been. And the place we are now. For many years Oliver E. Samuel and I have been writing about places and their role in our lives. About the people that made them what they are. He is the versifier, the maker of poems, the rhymer of rhymes. I the connector. The tailor whose threads seam together his sporadic and episodic verses. And what better place to begin than the village where we were born.
“We keep coming back to what we really are, tethered to the homeland. We keep turning over those same old ruins, grave-robbers pillaging the past.” – Hindsight.
There can be no homecoming without a home. Every time we return we make the village ours again. Each time in the streets of our minds, in the alleyways of our hearts.
Time and the river flow endlessly. We stand in midstream and feel the rush at our thighs. And learn over again all the things we thought we left behind. Washed again by the waters of our lives. Are we searching for peace or just a place to be clean again?