It’s so small, this country I’ve built for myself. Every piece ceases to exist when my back turns. You wouldn’t believe this part of it to be barren, but abundance doesn’t keep a heart beating.
A room isn’t what it seems, every inch is work, every day a careful sacrifice. I’m dully aware this long in a vacuum has me losing weight. Freedom is a mountain, unsurmountable and unflinching in the face of turmoil.
To those who are smothered by familiarity, tell me where you would rather be? Are you so sick of following orders, that you’ll claim ownership of the monarchy? Do you kid yourself that the world is so bright? Are you so naive, you believe freedom makes men free?
I’m shivering and cold in Frankfurt. I’m bored and alone in Prague. Darkness shrouds Reykjavík, with its blankets of snow. Every place is wonderful, everyone exquisite.
But when the airfare has run out, I’m sitting alone in a bar on 6th st. and no place is free. Some days, some years, just don’t belong to us. Sovereignty isn’t what it’s made out to be.