Introspect; Longing

There's still a little bit of your taste, in my mouth

There's still a little bit of you laced, with my doubt

It's still a little hard to say

What's going on

Days gone by. Hands. Months. Years. The pasangs behind me never surpass the distance laid out before me. And the farther I travel, the smaller the world seems. Most days it is little more than this modest stretch of canal, where only rowers, canoes, and gondolas navigate. It is a humble view of the world, from the window of my rented room, but enough for now. Vendors laden down with their goods of trade, slave girls hanging laundry. All of this under the complimentary haze of a midmorning sun, before the full light of day brings an honest clarity to the muck and the mire, the myriad sins of lies, deceit, debt, and betrayal.

There's still a little bit of your ghost, your weakness

There's still a little bit of your face, I haven't kissed

You step a little closer to me

Still I can't say what's going on

A prisoner of the city, in his chains and manacles, under guard, scrubs the same stretch of cobbled pathway each day. I sometimes wonder where he is from, how he came to this predicament. He weathers the blows of the guards, sometimes a fist to the back of his head, other times a kick at his legs, with a patient resolve. Wretch though he may be, he does not seem to be a slave. Perhaps he will find a way out of this morass of circumstance.

Stones taught me to fly

Love, it taught me to lie

Life, it taught me to die

So it's not hard to fall, when you float like a cannonball

I have fallen into a comfortable routine in this city, famed for its infamy, and also for its courage to overthrow the chains of despots. Free men did not build her walls, but she is free nonetheless, grand in a way that is best understood by being here. And a power to be reckoned with. Though I long for home, for the beauty of the Theater, the adventure of the Anbar, and the simple pleasure of being amongst the People, I am starting to wonder when I will return, if I will return. I do not believe in the maxim, 'you cannot go home again,' as I have gone and returned dozens of times, but I understand the meaning of it. One changes. One grows. One evolves with the passage of time, and the experience of life. If one is truly 'of' a place, as I am of Ar, I do not believe one changes into something incompatible with his origin, nor does he outgrow it, or even evolve past the intangible part of his being that defines him. I suppose I will return home, but I cannot say when.

There's still a little bit of your song in my ear

There's still a little bit of your words I long to hear

You step a little closer to me

So close that I can't see what's going on.

lyrics by Damien Rice - 'Cannonball'